The Killing Grounds
by Wolff and Bergstrom
Summary: The Alliance has faced its crossroads at Hoth, and it has survived. The war, though, is far from over. Blood has been drawn, and the Galactic Civil War has entered its third year... [The Second Novel of the Crossroads Trilogy]
1. Title & Dedication

**THE KILLING GROUNDS  
****_A _Star Wars_ Fan Fiction  
THE SECOND NOVEL OF THE CROSSROADS TRILOGY_**

By Joseph Bergstrom

* * *

_All rights to the Star Wars intellectual properties and characters are owned by Lucasfilm, and no infringement is intended. This is a work of fan fiction, written by a few passionate fans._

_This piece of fiction takes place in a timeline alternate to that of the new Canon, and to that of the old pre-Disney Legends. However, this timeline draws nearly all inspiration from Legends, and attempts to faithfully recreate the spirit of Legends._

* * *

**Important! Read This!**

Okay, I need to explain why I haven't updated in so long. The first reason; life's been busy. For the second; this site seems determined to drive me insane.

A far more well-edited version of _Crossroads_ can be found on AO3, which I discovered a while ago, and barely managed to save my sanity with. I'll keep updating _The Killing Grounds_ on this site, but it won't be very often. I'm much more active on AO3, since that site is actually intuitively designed. So, go take a look at AO3: It's a better site.

* * *

**Dedication**

This story is dedicated my family and friends, and to two people in particular; my friend, co-conspirator, and all-around goofball, Joshua; and to Timothy, who's my friend, confidant, and stable sounding board for those _really_ strange ideas.

–_Joseph_

* * *

**Author's Note**

If you haven't read _Crossroads_, which is a fan fiction published on this website, you're going to be an awfully confused person. _Crossroads_ is fairly short, clocking in at only 50,000-ish words, so just go take an evening and lose yourself in it. Once you've read it, this might make a little more sense...maybe.

Also, _The Killing Grounds_ will not be published all at once. I am considering this my experiment in episodic writing, and as a way to receive feedback on specific chapters. I don't have any release schedule planned, and I'm just going to release a chapter once I'm relatively satisfied with it. If you have any constructive feedback or ideas you'd like to throw out, feel free to in the reviews.

Happy reading.


	2. Epigraph

Eight and ten, we marched to war,  
Fighting through fields and towns,  
To die at the orders of the Corps,  
On those bloody killing grounds.

—From the journal of an Alliance Marine


	3. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

The Empire was born in war, and had been arrogantly proclaimed to be the beginning of a thousand-year-long New Order. Had any of the men who founded such a behemoth cared to read their histories, they would have known that all great empires die from within.

—From _The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire: Volume III  
_by Galen Corr, Historian

* * *

_**Imperial Center, Core Worlds, 0 ABY**_

The darkness that covered the planet-wide metropolis was a living thing. Ebbing and growing with each passing day, swirling around all living creatures, and filling their minds with anger, vanity, greed, and all emotions of the Dark Side of the Force.

On a nameless hill that had once overlooked the city of Cora—the ancient city built by the warlike Taung—the living, breathing heart of both the Empire and the Dark Side stood: The Imperial Palace.

The site of the Palace had once been the site of the Jedi Temple, built to act as a nexus for Light, and as the headquarters of the ancient order of Jedi Knights. Sheev Palpatine, once a senator from Naboo, and now the emperor of the known galaxy, had ordered the Palace built right over the remains of the Temple, as a cruel mockery of everything the Jedi had fought for.

The Grand Vizier of the Empire, Sate Pestage strode into the heart of the darkened palace, flanked by a squad of faceless Imperial Guardsmen, who marched in mute silence behind him.

A turbolift brought he and his Guardsmen up to the pinnacle of the Palace—the Emperor's private quarters.

A pair of Guardsmen stood guard outside the Emperor's quarters, and they crossed their force pikes as Pestage and his Guardsmen approached. _"The Emperor will not be disturbed," _one of them said, though Pestage couldn't tell which with their helmets on.

"I'm afraid that I have no choice," Pestage said. "Let me pass."

The Guardsmen did not move for a moment, before uncrossing their pikes. _"Be it upon your head, Grand Vizier,"_ they warned.

The squad of Guardsmen that had accompanied him refused to go further and waited silently as he stepped through the doorway.

He could not see his emperor, but the darkness and hatred that filled the room showed that he was still here. Pestage fell to his knees, his head low as a show of subservience. "Your Grace," he said, his old thin voice making the words sound even more pathetic.

The Emperor seemed to appear out of the shadows as they receded slightly, revealing that he was sitting in one of the seats of the Jedi Council. "What is it?" He was an old man, and the words sounded benign, though his tone was not. He had given exactingly specific orders that he was not to be disturbed, and was not pleased that anyone would disregard his dictates for any reason.

"A…disaster, Your Grace."

Emperor Sheev Palpatine remained silent, forcing the Vizier to remain silent with the same action. "Explain," he demanded.

"Yes, Your Grace." Pestage stared at the floor as he contemplated how to say what needed to be said. "There is no tact way to say this, Your Grace: Thrawn is alive."

Palpatine was silent, ominously so this time. "How?" he demanded, his voice as deadly as it had ever been.

"The bombing on Nez Peron, Your Grace. The rebellious 'Alliance' has claimed credit for the vicious attack, but the ISB's questioning of the bomber's family indicates that he had no love for the Alliance—and they were extremely…_thorough_, in their interrogation, Your Grace.

"One of the Navy's task groups operating in the Outer Rim was ambushed and destroyed by a light cruiser and two escorts—something Thrawn has proven himself is capable of innumerable times." Pestage swallowed, before continuing, "And, only one day ago, a Navy battlegroup was ambushed in a trap so convoluted that I am astounded. And the precise timing it must have required…"

"What of the battlegroup?"

"It was lost with all hands, Your Grace."

"The alien has brought the ruin of his people by attacking us so blatantly," the Emperor said coldly.

Pestage shifted a little, not relishing delivering the final bits of information. "The most damning evidence, Your Grace, has just been received from a Navy dreadnought operating in the Outer Rim: The commanding officer has positively identified Thrawn."

Palpatine sensed his Grand Vizier was holding back one last piece of information. "And?"

Pestage flinched. "And Thrawn is operating as an Alliance admiral, Your Grace."

There was no sound, not even breathing, and no words escaped the Emperor's throat for a moment. Then, with an audible _crack_, Palpatine stood upright and lashed out with the Force in a rare loss of control.

Pestage cowered in terror as Palpatine sent a shockwave rebounding around the room, blowing chairs and tables to metallic splinters. He himself was picked up off of his feet a moment later by an invisible hand, suspended in mid-air while he struggled to breathe.

"An _Alliance admiral_?" Palpatine's tone was sickening. Nearly as sickening as the snap of Pestage's vertebrae, as he was slammed into a wall.

Palpatine relished the pain, fear, and shock in the Grand Vizier's dying moments, letting it feed his power for a moment. He released his invisible grip on Pestage, and the dead man fell to the floor.

Palpatine walked past the crumpled body, returning himself to his seat. He depressed a stud with the Force and began speaking in a tone that would let whoever had the unfortunate duty of answering his hail know that he was not in a good mood: "Get me Grand Admiral Grunger."

"_Yes, Your Grace,"_ the fear-filled voice responded quickly.

A moment later, another voice answered over the comlink built into the chair, _"This is Grunger, Your Grace."_

Palpatine recognized the voice of Grand Admiral Josef Grunger, even without the confirmation. Grunger commanded the Imperial Navy's First Sector Group, which was tasked with protecting the Core Worlds. Prior to the revelation of Thrawn's treason, the task had been entirely unwarranted. Now Palpatine wondered if one sector group was enough to hold the alien in the Outer Rim.

"Double the Home Fleet," Palpatine snapped into the comm pickup.

For a moment, there was complete silence from the other end of the line while Grunger scrambled to think. _"As you command, Your Grace,"_ he said after a moment.

Palpatine cut the comlink channel with a mental flick of the switch, switching it to a new channel just as quickly with the Force. "Get me Lord Vader—and then get me Mara Jade."

* * *

_**Nirauan, Wild Space, 0 ABY**_

"He's alive." The words echoed throughout the room, stilling the quiet murmur of conversation instantly. Voss Parck, formerly—and still officially—a captain of the Imperial Navy, stayed on his feet, letting the words sink into the minds of every member of the Council of the Hand. "Alive," he repeated the words more softly now.

"This is confirmed, Captain?" The questioner's blue skin and fiery eyes marked him as a Chiss, though his uniform marked him as a commodore of the Hand's Navy.

"It is, Commodore Marro'lit'zuore." Parck pronounced the name with the ease of a man long accustomed to the Chiss language. "It," he smiled thinly, "comes directly from our sources in the Imperial Navy."

There was silence for a minute, before a Chiss, a colonel of the Hand's Army, spoke in his native language, "Bin'vah Bei."

Parck was silent for a minute, respecting the Chiss colonel's words with his silence. "We must initiate contact with the Grand Admiral," he said a moment later.

"Of course, Captain," Commodore Marro'lit'zuore agreed slowly. The Commodore hesitated, not wishing to speak ill of the man they all believed so deeply in. "But why?" he asked. "Why has he remained silent for so long?"

Parck swallowed before answering carefully, "Our source has informed us that he is a serving admiral—the senior admiral, in fact—in the Alliance Navy."

Silence returned, this time prompted by shock. The thought that Thrawn had abandoned them never entered their minds; they all knew his dedication to his people, and that he was constitutionally incapable of betraying his own people, whether they be Chiss or Human.

"We must…_reconsider_ our relationship to the Empire in light of this event," Marro'lit'zuore said.

"I believe we are all in agreement about that, Commodore," Parck said dryly. "But had Thrawn wished us to act he would have sent us word." He held up a hand to silence any opposition, and the officers in the room fell silent instantly.

Despite his junior rank, he was Thrawn's chosen chief of state of the Empire of the Hand while Thrawn was _in absentia_, and his powers were vast. Vast enough that the officers now listened to him in mute silence.

"We will quietly distance ourselves from Imperial Center, but such an action must be…_reversible_, should the need arrive," he said. "We have no idea of Thrawn's plans, and must be prepared for every eventuality."

He turned to the senior-most Navy flag officer, Admiral Sarria Thek. "Despite our caution in distancing ourselves from the Empire, there is a chance we will be forced to enter into battle against them," he said. "And we must all decide which oath we will honor."

Thek nodded stiffly—she herself had once been an Imperial captain, and was emotionally torn at the thought of doing battle with the empire she had spent so many years of her life fighting for. "We will be ready, Vun'ur-Boo," was all she said.


	4. Part One—The Survivors of Hoth

**PART ONE  
**_The Survivors of Hoth_


	5. Chapter One—Mitth'raw'nuruodo

**MITTH'RAW'NURUODO**

It is entirely possible that Thrawn did not believe as deeply as some in the ideals of the Republic. I myself did not believe in them—and I still do not believe in some of the more naïve promises the early leaders and manifestos made—for many years. But Thrawn's devotion to the men under his command, and those he regarded as _his_ people, can not be questioned.

—From _Thrawn  
_by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

The _Millennium Falcon_ smeared into existence as it dropped out of hyperspace within bare kilometers of the Alliance Navy's rendezvous point. The _Falcon_ drifted free for a moment, before her powerful sublight engines roared to life, though the noise was unheard in the vacuum of space.

All around the small YT-1300 light freighter, running lights and welding drones gave shape to the shadowy silhouettes of the Alliance Navy.

"_Unknown contact, this is _Knight_ actual, identify yourself immediately or you will be fired upon," _a voice squawked over Han Solo's headset. Moments later, the active sensors mounted aboard Alliance warships were lit off and focused on the _Falcon_, and a squadron of T-65 X-Wings—serving their turn in the combat air patrol rotation—began burning toward them as well.

Solo tapped the side of his headset to activate his audio pickups. "This is Captain Solo, _Knight _actual. I have a wounded officer aboard and Admiral Thrawn." He tried to put a bit of swagger in his voice—for he was acutely aware that Princess Leia Organa was sitting in the seat behind Chewbacca—but found that he couldn't. Not after having seen all of the death and destruction on the frozen hell known as Hoth.

There was a moment of silence. _"Confirm, Solo,"_ the signal officer aboard _Knight_, a captured _Imperial_-class star destroyer, ordered.

Solo swore under his breath, hoping the Princess hadn't heard. Thrawn's shakeup of the Alliance had included the addition of proper security procedures, and Solo was already missing the happy-go-lucky days of the early Alliance's security.

"Admiral!" he called from the cockpit, leaning around Princess Organa to do so. "You might want to get up here; I need some rank-pulling!" Getting shot by their own side was the last thing he was interested in.

"Understood, Captain," Thrawn answered from the infirmary, sparing one final glance for the unconscious Navy commander lying on a surgical table. "On my way."

As he reached the cockpit of the ancient freighter, he motioned Princess Organa aside and accepted a headset from Chewbacca, the Wookie co-pilot. The same signal officer was speaking, responding to one of Solo's queries: _"Solo; please refrain from—"_

Thrawn cut into the exchange, pulling rank as Solo had requested, "This is Admiral Thrawn, identification code: Seven-alpha-zero-two-eight-five-baker. Acknowledge."

There was a moment of silence as the code was entered into the main computers, _"ID codes are green. __How's the weather?"_

"Cold."

"_How's the jacket?"_

"Torn," Thrawn responded. The countersigns were simple, but randomized every other day.

"_Alphabet Squadron will escort you in. Welcome home, Admiral."_

The signal officer's voice shifted in tone instantly, upon confirming Thrawn's authenticity, becoming much friendlier.

"Thank you." Thrawn pulled his headset off, hanging it on a rack in the cockpit. "Bring us in, Captain. Aboard the _Knight_," he said, knowing that the _Knight _had the most advanced infirmary in the fleet.

Solo was technically a freelance pilot, holding no rank in the Alliance. He treasured being just barely important to warrant sitting in on the Alliance's war council—or what passed for it—but just far enough outside of it to pack up and leave once he got bored. Despite that flaunted independence, when Thrawn spoke, his response was an automatic, "Aye, sir." The response bothered him, but it was a holdover from his days as an Imperial Naval officer.

Thrawn retreated from the cockpit, noting that Princess Organa moved back into it after he did so. There was no reason for her to to be in the cockpit, nor any reason she shouldn't, but his mind automatically began working through the possible reasons she was spending so much time around the freelance pilot.

As he retook his seat back in the _Falcon_'s infirmary, he studied the unconscious commander with pursed lips. Commander William Sheplin had been his friend for over fifteen years, the pair having met after Thrawn had been assigned command of the _Ark Royal_, a_ Victory_-class star destroyer, when Sheplin—then a green midshipman—had been assigned to the same ship straight out of the Naval Academy.

Sheplin had been as green of an officer as could be imagined, but, despite the awkwardness of the gangling midshipman, there was a degree of command, of instinctive decision-making, that had prompted Thrawn to take a closer look at the young man.

What had begun as a clear attempt of Thrawn's to cultivate yet another young prodigy had suddenly gone sideways, when Thrawn had realized that he had become genuinely fond of the man. Drastic differences in rank had made the friendship difficult, but there was little doubt in Thrawn's mind that Sheplin would walk through Hell without hesitation if Thrawn asked him to. And, by the same token, there was nothing Thrawn would not do if his friend required it.

So, when Thrawn had made his decision to abandon the Empire, Sheplin hadn't even hesitated to follow.

Now, nearly a year after the decision had been made, The Alliance was on the run—technically, at least—Sheplin had been scarred and then wounded in a desperate firefight, and the Empire was undoubtedly hot on their trail.

Thrawn never even considered that he might have thrown his lot in with the losing side; the die had been cast by another's hand even before he'd made his fateful decision. Long before.

* * *

The usual side party—complete with bosun's pipes—had been postponed by Thrawn, and the four uninjured bipeds descended the _Falcon_'s loading ramp without any ceremony. A pair of Navy corpsmen with a stretcher ran past them, up the loading ramp, and returned moments later with Commander Sheplin's unconscious body.

Thrawn left his three companions and returned the salute of the captain of the _Knight, _Michael Baldor, who had come to welcome him aboard personally.

"Welcome aboard, Admiral," Baldor said, not a hint of concern in his voice, though it had been clear on his face.

"Thank you, Captain." Thrawn's gaze turned to the Navy corpsmen rushing Sheplin to the infirmary for a moment, before moving on to the most senior Navy man in the hanger; Rear Admiral Gial Ackbar.

"What is the condition of the fleet?" Thrawn asked, directing his question at Ackbar.

"Intact, sir," the Mon Calamari admiral responded. "Upon my own initiative, I've been stripping men from the cruisers and placing them aboard the star destroyers in order to bring them to combat strength."

"Excellent." Thrawn nodded. "What is the combat-effective strength of the SDs?"

"I managed to steal enough men to crew six star destroyers, but I would hesitate to call them entirely combat-effective." Ackbar's facial expressions were difficult to read, being so alien, but it was obvious that the Mon Calamari was wondering if Thrawn would continue to act as if nothing untoward had happened on Hoth.

Thrawn's expression became less severe than usual. "Thank you, Admiral. You acted as I would have."

That was unusually high praise, and Ackbar became embarrassed. "Thank you, sir."

"What is the state of our government?"

It was a question that demanded a less pleasant response. "Worse than our Navy," Ackbar answered. "Senator Mothma has reorganized it to something resembling a government, but half of the bureaucrats are still aboard evacuation transports."

Thrawn nodded, though he hardly cared about the remainder of the sentence. All he could think about for a moment was that she was alive. Mon Mothma was alive.

* * *

Inside the flag briefing room, Ackbar sat stiffly in a chair, afraid to relax, lest he fall asleep—it had been a long two days. "It isn't as cheery as I made it sound in the hanger, Admiral," Ackbar said finally.

"I didn't expect it was," Thrawn answered truthfully. "But you were right to keep it positive in public."

Ackbar nodded in agreement. "The Navy's intact, thankfully, but the Army and Marine Corps' been chewed all to kanway."

"How bad?"

"The Third Division—" the Alliance Army's Third Division had born the brunt of the Empire's assault on Hoth "—doesn't exist on anything but flimsi." Ackbar rubbed his amphibian face. "They sustained seventy-three percent casualties, and I wouldn't be surprised if General Trantor deactivates them.

"The Marines got off lighter, but every frontline Marine unit on Hoth suffered an average of thirty-six percent casualties."

Thrawn was silent as he absorbed the information. Over thirteen thousand Alliance ground-pounders were dead, wounded, or captured.

"Strike-craft?"

Ackbar grimaced at the question. "Most of the surviving units have already returned, but nearly three-hundred strike-craft—X-Wings, Y-Wings, and airspeeders included—were not recovered."

Thrawn was silent again, but before he could get too deep into his thoughts, Ackbar interrupted again, saying, "Rogue Squadron hasn't reported back yet, sir."

The implication was clear, and Thrawn's lips flattened and became thin at the thought of Rogue Squadron's potential destruction. He glanced at a bulkhead-mounted chronometer, calculating. "We will remain on station for another four hours, Admiral, before moving."

It was an unspoken dismissal, and Ackbar stood. "Aye, sir."

Before Ackbar could leave, Thrawn stopped him, saying quietly, "I am glad you survived, my friend," he said.

Ackbar nodded slowly, before saluting. "Likewise, sir."


	6. Chapter Two—Wedge Antilles

**WEDGE ANTILLES**

**Interviewer:** "Any plans for after the War, Commander?"

**Commander Antilles:** "I honestly haven't thought that far ahead."

—From _The __Antilles__ Interviews  
_with Commander Wedge Antilles, NRN, MIA

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

The mottled, star-streaked patterns of hyperspace collapsed into pinprick points of light as the T-65 X-Wing dropped out of hyperspace. An instant later, four X-Wings emerged from hyperspace as well, trailing in formation behind their commander.

They were all that remained of Rogue Squadron.

Commander Wedge Antilles had never been so weary. It wasn't from the physical strain of the five-hour hyperspace jump, or from the ten hours of ceaseless combat on Hoth, but from the horrible realization he'd come to at the end of the battle on that frozen world.

He'd been killing men ever since he had been seventeen, and the realization that what he did best—not working with his hands, not farming under an alien sun, or even working in an office—was killing his fellow man, had disturbed him.

He took a deep breath, and glanced at the passive sensor readouts, adjusting his heading with deft touches to the control stick so that his sensor suite was staring right at the distant specks of Alliance warships. A moment later, he pushed the acceleration column forward a hair, feeding a little power to the engines. "Follow me in," he said over the comlink, receiving painfully few acknowledgments.

"_Unidentified contacts, identify yourself immediately or you will be fired upon."_ The voice that challenged them was dull, as if his words had been repeated many times.

"This is Rogue Lead, identification code—" He hesitated for a moment, trying to remember the randomized code. The first two characters were fixed, in order to quickly sort the importance of a person, but the remainder of the characters were changed every month. Flag officers had the remainder of the characters changed on them every other day. "—two-gamma-nine-two-zero-charlie."

"_Welcome back, Wedge,"_ the voice said after a moment, which Wedge's sensors now indicated had come from a squadron of X-Wings serving their turn in the CAP. _"__How's the weather?"_

Wedge thought for a moment, before the remainder of the countersign returned to him. "Cold," he answered.

"_How's the jacket?"_

Involuntarily, Wedge looked down at his flight suit. It was stiff from dried sweat. "Torn."

"_You have been cleared for landing on _Knight_, __Rogue Lead__. Handing you off to their LSO now."_

"Acknowledged," Wedge said.

* * *

In the main hanger of the _Knight_, the remnants of Rogue Squadron were towed from the lifts by chugging tractors into neat rows, well away from the main flow of traffic, where technicians and engineers could service them.

As the tractors detached, deckhands wheeled ladders up to the slowly-opening cockpits of the strike-craft. Wedge carefully shut the engines off from their idle and winced at how little fuel had been left. The continual fighting in Hoth's atmosphere had taken a shocking amount of fuel, and the subsequent hyperspace jump hadn't left them any more than a few minutes at full burn—they'd landed on fumes.

Wedge unstrapped himself, and took his flight helmet off, placing it on the instrument panel. As he climbed down the ladder, he began shaking from the exertion, and when he was at the bottom he sat down limply on a rung.

"Wedge." The single word made him open his eyes, though he hadn't remembered closing them.

"Mala?" he asked sleepily, though his voice had been too quiet for anyone to hear. His eyes focused on the speaker, and he remembered where he was. "Lieutenant Thorne," he said simply, looking at the chief engineer attached to Rogue Squadron.

The first time he'd seen Lieutenant Thorne, he'd been climbing into his X-Wing, preparing for the seemingly-suicidal attack on the Death Star. It seemed like she had been watching him leave on a great many suicide missions lately.

She was about as tall as he was—which wasn't much, for Wedge Antilles had never been credited as being a big man—with the top of her head coming about up to his eyes. Her blond hair was always worn in a braid to keep it out of her way while working, but the rugged practicality was as much a part of her as the grease stains and burn marks on her uniform.

He was too tired to wonder how she managed to get herself aboard the _Knight_, as the last time he'd seen her, she had been acting as Rogue Squadron's chief engineer on the surface of Hoth. She'd probably been evacuated on one of the many faster YT-type transports the Alliance maintained.

"Commander Antilles," Thorne said. It seemed ridiculously formal, but neither one seemed willing to break from the established protocols for a moment.

Wedge remembered the promise he'd made only fourteen hours prior, and the corners of his lips tugged upward into a tired smile. "I didn't break my promise," he said dryly.

He expected her to laugh, but instead, her eyes widened for a moment, and she choked back a sob.

His own eyes widened for a moment, and he stood to his full height. "Halle, Thorne," he swore, starting to cross to her. "I—"

He stopped himself short of the crying engineer, as a little chime sounded from his comlink. He slipped a hand into his flight pants to retrieve it, before pulling his tired hand out, empty. "Kark it." The comlink stopped chiming a few moments later.

He took Thorne in his arms gingerly, unsure of himself. He had never comforted a woman before, not even Mala.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

She wrapped her arms around him. "I look for you every time, Wedge. Every time you're out on a karking mission, I—" she stopped, tears still flowing. She seemed to suddenly realize that people in the hangar deck were staring at them, and unwound her arms.

The scene had only lasted what seemed like a moment, but a Marine sentry approached them. "Apologies, sir," the Marine said, saluting, and keeping his eyes steadfastly away from the tear-streaked engineer. "Admiral Thrawn was concerned you may have forgotten your debrief—you didn't answer his comm."

_Admiral Thrawn._ Wedge closed his eyes for a moment. "Yes, I understand," he said, hoping that Thorne understood as well.

* * *

"Good morning, Commander," Admiral Thrawn said, sitting behind a desk in his quarters. "It is, of course, morning only according to the _Knight_'s chronos."

"Aye, sir. Good morning." Wedge couldn't help the slight annoyance in his tone, and he winced as he heard himself. "My apologies, sir."

Thrawn tapped a finger on his desk a few times. "Citing regulations would not be beneficial, I fear," he said simply.

Wedge closed his eyes, unsurprised that Thrawn had already heard of the hanger deck scene; he seemed to hear about everything.

Thrawn was silent for a moment again. "Since time immemorial, there has been love in the militaries of the universe," he said, a slight smile flickering over his face. "Now, your report, Commander." Thrawn gestured to a chair.

Wedge nodded and sat as directed. "At thirteen-forty orders to scramble were given, and Rogue Squadron launched under my command—"

Fifteen minutes later, Wedge began reaching the end of his report, and he delivered it as he had delivered all of it; in a tired, detached voice.

Thrawn nodded, a piece of a puzzle revealing itself to him. "You ordered the launch of proton torpedoes inside of an atmosphere, against ground forces?" he queried.

"Aye, sir."

Thrawn was silent as he thought. "I do not believe I have ever heard of such a maneuver." He took in a small breath, an expression of weariness crossing his features. Even the Chiss had limits to his endurance and was approaching them after nearly twenty hours of command. "You undoubtedly saved the Alliance a costly defeat with your maneuver, Commander," he said.

"No, sir; I just carried out my duty."

Thrawn shook his head, a smile appearing on his lips. "You are a rarity in this Navy, Antilles. There are far too many glory-hunters and politicians. Were you a minute slower…" Thrawn trailed off, and shrugged, "then perhaps I would not be here."

Thrawn stood, prompting Wedge to do the same. "Get some rack time, Commander. You have certainly earned it."

"Aye, sir." Wedge hesitated, before speaking again, "Sir, if I might?"

"Yes?"

Wedge swallowed. "Sir, at the end of the battle, I…came to a realization." Thrawn nodded and waited patiently. "I realized—" Wedge stopped, then swore. "I thought this would be easier," he admitted. "I…realized that I have no trade—aside from killing." His words were bitter.

Thrawn considered what Wedge had said. "That is a hard truth," he said. "Though there is no other kind." He was silent for a long while, his eyes closed. "I am much like you, Commander," he said finally. "I will never work with my hands, will never know what…'normal' men know, and will never know much more than pain and war." He opened his eyes, staring directly at Wedge with his glowing eyes. "Men like you and myself will always be freaks, Commander, reviled by polite, peace-time society as cruel, murderous men. But peace always vanishes…and when that happens, we fight the battles that our people can not—or will not.

"Now, Commander," Thrawn said, "you're dismissed."

* * *

There was a tap at the hatch, and Wedge twisted the locking mechanism and swung it open.

He was unspeakably tired, and anger was plain on his face as the hatch swung open—he'd been only a few minutes from sleep. "If—" He stopped himself, anger draining away, leaving only a tired, lonely man.

"Hi," Lieutenant Thorne said. She had been crying again, but she smiled a little. "My name's Gwendolyn, sir."

Despite the overpowering urge to fall asleep where he stood, Wedge smiled.


	7. Chapter Three—Hiram Flynn

**HIRAM FLYNN**

The thought that Thrawn might betray the Empire had never entered my mind. He was an alien, of course, but he had always appeared as nothing more than a loyal son of the New Order. It should have occurred to me, during my hunt, that such a cold and calculating man would have been more than capable of such a deception.

—From _The Hunt for Thrawn  
_by Colonel Hiram Flynn, ISB, Retired

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Colonel Hiram Flynn, arguably the third most powerful man in the Imperial Security Bureau—only since Colonel Yularen had been reduced to atoms at the Battle of Yavin—sat numbly in the empty gunship. They had lifted off of the surface fifteen minutes prior, and the pilot had announced that they'd entered orbit a few minutes ago.

The shock of discovering Grand Admiral Thrawn alive had worn off, and the consequences of his inaction were running through his mind.

The Alliance to Restore the Republic had the single greatest military mind of the era lending his brilliance to their cause, and the results would be spectacularly deadly to the men and women of the Empire. One had to look no further than the death-strewn planet below them for a taste of what would come.

The Battle of Hoth should have been over the moment it began. A _Mandator-II_-class dreadnought was not to be trifled with, but Thrawn had disabled it, and successfully defended their position on the ground against two legions of Stormtroopers and fifty-thousand regular Imperial Army infantry.

In the end, the overwhelming numbers of Imperial infantrymen had broken the defenders, but Thrawn's objective had never been to win the battle, but simply to survive long enough to retreat in good order.

They'd bled the Rebels before they escaped, but they shouldn't have escaped _at all_.

Imperial Center was going to be livid once they discovered just how thoroughly they'd been deceived by the Chiss, but there would be fear and panic among the High Command as well, Flynn was certain.

And this was just the beginning. Thrawn would not be stopped easily, and the galaxy would run with the blood of trillions before this war was over, Flynn feared. That thought left him feeling empty and sick, as he could have prevented it all with one squeeze of the trigger.

* * *

"Welcome aboard, Colonel," a junior Naval lieutenant said, saluting.

Flynn was irked that a lowly lieutenant had been sent to take him aboard the massive _Mandator-II_-class dreadnought _Resolute_, but he buried the irrational impulse quickly—anyone higher ranking was busy restoring the dreadnought to fighting trim.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said. "I require a priority hypercomm relay immediately."

"Aye, sir," the lieutenant responded quickly. "Please follow me to the bridge."

The corridors of the massive Imperial dreadnought were clogged with spacers of all kinds; engineers, techs, gunners, and countless more that Flynn couldn't recognize. Given the brutality of the fighting on the surface, he was slightly surprised that the Rebels hadn't attempted to destroy the dreadnought. It would have been quite a blow to the Imperial Navy to lose one of their massive battleship-killers, even if it was one of the oldest in active service.

On the lift, the lieutenant keyed in a direct route to the bridge, bypassing any other passengers that would have delayed them.

"Colonel," Admiral Fletcher said, greeting Flynn after he heard the lift doors open. "We have been attempting to contact you, but we believe the residual effects of the EMPs are obscuring the signal."

Flynn nodded at the statement. Nearly all electronics that hadn't been hardened against EMP strikes—and even a few of those that had been—on the surface had been taken out of commission when seven strike-fighters had loosed their entire load of proton warhead-tipped torpedoes against the Imperial assault force on the surface. Including Flynn's comlink.

"I understand, Admiral. I need to make an emergency hypercomm relay to Imperial Cent—"

"Already done, Colonel."

Flynn failed to hide his anger at the interruption, and glared slightly at the speaker, Captain-Baron Wren, commander of the _Resolute_. The man seemed pathetically uncomprehending of Flynn's sudden anger. Even Fletcher gave his subordinate a distasteful look.

"Explain," Flynn ordered.

Fletcher shifted uncomfortably at the order. _He _was in command here, damn it. But he did not question or countermand Flynn's order. No one countermanded an ISB colonel and lived for very long.

Wren was still oblivious as he responded, "I contacted the surface in order to demand the Rebels' surrender, and was answered by—" he was clearly savoring the telling of the story, but Flynn interrupted him:

"Thrawn," Flynn stated.

Wren's expression fell as he realized that he would not be able to awe Flynn with the revelation. "Yes, Colonel. Thrawn." Something in Flynn's expression caused Wren to finally notice that the ISB colonel was not pleased for some reason.

"You realize, of course," Flynn uttered every word with a cold finality, "that had I—or even the commander of the assault force—known that it was Thrawn, the situation could have been handled with _far_ more caution?" He held Wren's eyes for painful seconds. "_Thousands_, Captain, are dead because of our enemy's tactics, and even the _slightest_ inkling of who he was could have saved some of them, you karking piece of skrag."

Wren sputtered as he answered, "I tried to tell you before—" The disgraced Imperial captain was never able to finish his sentence.

Flynn unholstered his sidearm, and shot Captain-Baron Wren once in the head. The Baron's face simply vanished into a mass of charred flesh as the ruby-red bolt of plasma bit into his skin. He fell to the deck, dead before he even touched the decking.

Holstering his pistol again, Flynn glanced at Admiral Fletcher. "Argument, Admiral?"

Fletcher's face was white, but he shook his head from side-to-side. "No, Colonel," he answered.

Flynn glanced at the corpse on the bridge's deck. "Get him out of my sight, and apprise Imperial Center of the situation."

* * *

Safely in his quarters, Flynn began shaking. Shooting Captain Wren hadn't bothered him—in fact, he had enjoyed the experience of shooting the pig far more than he should have. But the fact that he had lost control frightened him.

He had always been a man perfectly in command of his urges and impulses, always able to resist the laughably pathetic attempts his enemies had made to destroy him—either by destroying his career, or by attempting to put a bolt between his eyes.

Losing control was nearly as much of a shock as discovering Thrawn was alive.

"_Colonel,"_ the voice over the comlink was that of Admiral Fletcher.

"Go ahead." Flynn had at least regained control of his voice.

"_The Admiralty has ordered us to the Kuat, and we are to await further instructions there."_ If the Admiralty had had any qualms over Wren's sudden death, Fletcher didn't mention them.

"Very well, Admiral. Take us to the Kuat system, best speed."

"_Very good, Colonel."_


	8. Chapter Four—Luke Skywalker

**LUKE SKYWALKER**

**Interviewer: **"Could you tell us a little about Hoth, Grand Master?"

**Captain Skywalker (Ret.):** "…If I was younger, I wouldn't answer. I'd just say it was bad, and leave it at that…but the truth becomes harder to find with every passing day, and I have a duty to my fallen comrades, to tell the truth about what we did…so what do you want to know?"

**Interviewer: **"What did the defeat do to you? Emotionally."

**Captain Skywalker (Ret.):** "To me? I had nightmares about dying—still do, actually. But it was different for all of us…

—From _The Skywalker Interviews  
_with Captain Luke Skywalker, NRN, Retired

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Lieutenant Commander Luke Skywalker sat in the subdued evacuation transport.

His training—if it could be called that—caused him to automatically identify the vessel as a Gallofree Yards GR-75 medium transport. Barely enough shielding to keep a micrometeorite from killing them all, a class four hyperdrive, and only four cannons mounted in turrets.

His thoughts made him uncomfortable, as he realized he was riding in a potential deathtrap that only needed an Imperial _Interdictor_-class lurking in real space for it to go from 'potential,' to 'probable.'

The Army and Marine grunts seemed oblivious to that fact, though perhaps they had simply come to the realization that it was out of their hands.

The stench inside the cramped Gallofree transport was indescribable, and he wondered detachedly how a man—who had been clean a mere twenty hours ago—could stink so quickly. It must have something to do with combat. Luke was perfectly willing to admit that he was adding to the odious atmosphere as well.

_I wonder if Wedge is alive. _The thought was unbidden, but it repeated itself several times. He'd not seen or heard from Wedge since the Corellian pilot had buzzed him, after Luke had been shot down.

Wedge and Rogue Squadron were the only family Luke had left any more, and the thought of losing them made his chest hurt. His own family had been butchered by Imperial Stormtroopers only…he shook his head in wonder. It'd only been a little less than a year since Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had been killed. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Maybe it had been.

Wedge had his own demons that haunted his sleep, Luke knew, but, despite that, the hard-winba Corellian had created a family out of the pilots of Rogue Squadron. Luke wasn't sure what he'd do if he lost them too.

There was a young man, no older than Luke, sitting across from him and shaking. He wasn't Army or Marines, but instead wore the shoulder patch of the Alliance Special Forces Command.

A Marine sitting beside Luke who looked old enough to have fought in the Clone Wars spoke up to the SpecForce trooper, "You all right?" Luke noticed that the Marine's right thumb was missing, and that the stump was bandaged.

The SpecForce trooper looked up, and stared at the Marine. The name tag on his fatigues read 'Mothma J.' "Combat shakes," he admitted.

"Which group?" Luke asked.

Mothma turned to look at Luke. "Fourth Regiment. Wilderness Fighters, J Company," he said simply. "You?"

"Rogue Squadron."

"The high-and-mighty Rogues ever get the shakes?"

Luke was surprised at the animus in Mothma's tone, but then realized that he had never seen, and would likely never see, the horrors Mothma had faced on the surface. Mothma would likely have spoken the same way to any spacer or pilot, who had no way of knowing the horrors the ground-pounders endured. "The 'high-and-mighty' Rogues get shakes," he admitted. He gestured to the Marine. "Same as the Marines, I suppose."

The Marine laughed a little, surprising Luke and Mothma. "I used to get them on Christophsis."

Neither Luke nor Mothma had been born when the Battle of Christophsis had been fought to a bitter end by the Republic and the Separatists.

The Marine looked like he was about to fall asleep, but he said, "Didn't know you spooks were down there."

"Not a spook," Mothma corrected. 'Spook' was the informal name for operatives of the Alliance Special Operations division, which was both highly nebulous and not attached formally to any branch of the Alliance Armed Forces. They existed on stolen rations and munitions, drifting around the Alliance, somewhat formally recognized by Command as a part of the war effort. They were often confused with the Special Force Command. "I'm a commando." He nodded. "But yeah, we were down there," he said. "Between the Eighty-Fifth and the Marine Fourth."

The Marine shook his head. "Karked up war," he said, repeating a phrase that had likely been coined—at least roughly—by the first spearmen in the ancient armies of the equally ancient Coruscanti warlords. "Army, Marines, and commandos—" he glanced at Luke, "—and fighter jocks, fighting side-by-side."

* * *

_The cockpit of the T-65_ _X-Wing shuddered and vibrated in the turbulence of a gas giant._

_Luke could feel the familiar vibration of straining engines in his bones, as the quadruple engines propelled the ship through the dense atmosphere._

_Dread reached up, and threatened to choke him, as a feeling of premonition from the Force washed over him._

_Explosions from concussion missiles bracketed his ship, but he escaped death at the hands of the small missiles with a quick jink to port._

_The familiar outline of an Imperial TIE L/N Fighter appeared in his vision, emerging from a swirling cloud of vapor directly ahead. For a moment, he savored the rush and thrill of battle, the earlier premonition forgotten. Then the thrill turned to horror, as his controls locked in place._

_The TIE grew larger and larger in his vision, and then its chin-mounted blaster cannons flared._

_Bolts of emerald plasma sliced through his shields, and, the moment before he died, he opened his mouth to scream._

* * *

It was a dream, but he awoke gasping for breath.

The transport was quiet, and most of the exhausted troops had fallen asleep in their seats. Despite the minor wounds that were spread among them, they seemed comfortable.

He stood up, stepping over legs, and made his way to the head—the Naval term for a washroom, which the Army troops insisted on calling a 'refresher.' He closed the hatch behind him, and ran a faucet for a moment. Finally, he splashed some of the water on his face, though it wasn't very cold.

_Just nerves,_ he told himself, wishing he could believe himself. They were all wound tight after Hoth. He hung his head over the sink and running water. _Just nerves,_ he repeated to himself. _Forget about it…_

"You can not bury your scars, Luke," someone said. The voice was strong, old, and most certainly from the Core. Luke recognized it instantly, though he didn't believe it could be real.

"Ben?" He turned around, and found himself staring into the light blue eyes of Ben Kenobi.

"It is good to see you as well." Ben's voice—which was normally amused—was grave with concern.

"How—"

"I could not explain it to you, Luke." Ben smiled a little. "Though I wish I could."

"Why—"

"You are not ready," Ben interrupted his former apprentice gently. "But you will be, one day." He sighed. "My time here is limited, my young friend, and I must be brief:

"You must go to the Dagobah system," the dead Jedi said. "To find a Jedi. The _last_ Jedi." He smiled, a hint of pain beginning to show in it. "I wish—" He cut himself off impatiently, shaking his head. "You must find Yoda, Luke. He will teach you, as he did me."

Ben began to grimace again at the unseen pain. "Goodbye, my friend."

"Ben! Wai—"

Ben vanished, and the hatch to the head opened suddenly. A soldier looked quizzically at the Naval pilot, before heading to a urinal.

Luke swallowed what he had been about to shout, and he stared into the running water. He remembered that he should have asked about the dream.

* * *

Wedge was waiting for him, as Luke and the rest of the passengers filed out of the transport. The young Corellian looked tired, but as soon as he saw Luke, his face became a mask of relief.

Luke cut out of the line, which was being processed by a few overworked Marine officers, and took Wedge's hand. "I'm glad you're alive," he said to Luke.

Luke felt himself smile. "So am I," he said. "How's the squadron—" He stopped as Wedge's expression turned to one of pain. "What?"

"Luke…we lost some," Wedge said.

Luke closed his eyes, the memory of the dream coming back to him. "Who?" he asked.

"Ozzy, Flast, Asto, Droma, Arlo, and Sam." With every name that the Corellian listed, Luke's expression fell.

Luke swallowed heavily. He hadn't lost his entire family—only half of it.


	9. Chapter Five—Mitth'raw'nuruodo

**MITTH'RAW'NURUODO**

I wonder, often, how it could be that a man such as Thrawn could have been so reviled by so many of his own race.

—From _Thrawn  
_by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Admiral Thrawn needed sleep, he knew. He had only found a few hours of sleep, while they continued to wait at the rendezvous point.

An hour before he'd awoken, the fleet jumped away. Their destination was another point in deep space. The odds that an Imperial task group would blunder upon them was minuscule, as space itself was infinite, and the spaces between stars were enormous.

"How is he?" Thrawn asked the corpsman, looking down on his aide, Commander William Sheplin.

Sheplin was a tall man, so tall in fact that the corpsmen had had to procure a bed meant for aliens, as the Human-sized beds were quite a bit too short.

"Alive," the Navy corpsman said simply. "His body took one hell of a shock on Hoth, and his burns are deep." He glanced at Thrawn. "I've authorized the use of bacta, for him."

Bacta was expensive and impossible to synthesize, being found on only a few select planets—all of which were under Imperial rule.

Thrawn shook his head. "No," he said. "He would find it wasteful."

The corpsman shrugged. "Very well, Admiral."

Two more scars to Sheplin would be nothing of note. A glance at William's uniform-less body showed that the man's chest was covered in scar tissue, nearly all of them obtained during his childhood. He'd never talked about how he'd gained them, but Thrawn knew the story.

"He was somewhat conscious a few hours ago," the corpsman said. "I don't know how soon you will want him to resume his duties, but he should be ready in a week or two."

Thrawn nodded.

The corpsman nodded as well. "If you will excuse me, Admiral—I have others to care for."

"Of course. Thank you."

When the corpsman was gone, Thrawn closed his eyes. "Ch'ah baper cseuhn bo ei, To ren'mur bah to ren'mur, rab ttis'ah vatt'ah ten," he said quietly, in the language of his people.

He found a chair and pulled it up beside Sheplin's sickbed. His aide had been willing to sacrifice himself for Thrawn, without a second thought even, and the least he owed him was to be here for a little while.

* * *

Mon Mothma didn't speak for a moment, as she watched Thrawn sit down across from her. They were both alone in Mothma's quarters aboard the _Starlight_.

"Did you try to kill me?" Mothma asked bluntly. Words, tact, and political maneuvering had always been her weapons, but she had forgone all of them in favor of the simple question.

Thrawn looked at her. "No."

Mothma stared back. "My advisers disagree. They say that by putting me one of the first transports, you had hoped that I would be killed, leaving you to take control of this Alliance."

The quarters were quiet, with only the distant rumble from the _Starlight_'s reactor to remind them they were aboard a warship.

"Killing you would only unify my opposition," Thrawn said.

Mothma sighed. "There are separate calls for me to relieve you of your position; given what happened at Hoth, doing so would seem appropriate."

Thrawn's expression revealed nothing, as he continued to stare at Mothma. "And yet you haven't."

"You wouldn't stand down, and I don't want a civil war."

"That makes two of us."

Mothma nodded a little. "I believe you, Admiral," she said. "And I believe that you didn't try to murder me." She smiled slightly. "Despite what happened on Hoth, you are an intelligent man, and you would know that killing me would only hurt you."

"It would," Thrawn agreed.

Mothma suddenly looked very tired, as if she hadn't slept well during the previous night. "Why are you here, Admiral?" she asked. "Why do you fight for us?"

A slight smile appeared on Thrawn's features. "A bit late to ask me that."

"I know," Mothma said. "We should have asked your reasons a long time ago—when you first defected."

Thrawn was silent. His red eyes roamed around the room, looking at anything but Mothma. "I don't believe in your cause," he said bluntly, as she had done at the beginning. "It's a stupid, naïve dream."

She didn't react to his words, just continued to stare at him.

"Empire or Republic—the differences are aesthetic. The Republic taxed the Outer Rim to rebellion, and then the Empire did the exact same. One or the other, it makes no difference to me which I serve. I only care that the nation I serve can win The War."

"What war?" Mothma asked.

Thrawn looked directly at Mothma suddenly; his eyes having ceased their wandering. What little humor there had been banished from his face, as he lifted the mask he chose to wear. "There is a war coming, Senator. A war which few know of, and even fewer are prepared for. A war that will shake the foundations of this galaxy.

"There will be no negotiations, there will be no surrenders, and there will be no mercy given to the defeated. It is the war I have dreaded for twenty years, and which I spent my years in the Empire preparing for."

Mothma closed her eyes. "This is the price of your service." It wasn't a question, just a simple statement.

"Yes," Thrawn said. "If you prepare for, and fight in, the coming war, I will give you a New Republic."

He stood upright, while Mothma stayed silent. "There are matters aboard the _Knight_ that require my attention," he said, his demeanor changing back to the unflappable Admiral, as he put his mask back in place. "Good day, Senator."

* * *

The man in the interrogation room was short—like most fighter pilots—with close-cropped auburn hair, and light green eyes.

Thrawn stood behind the one-way mirror, watching the man speak with an interrogator.

"_Your name is Crunie, correct?"_ the interrogator asked, his voice coming over a speaker, so that Thrawn could hear.

"_Yes."_

"_Wing Commander Crunie."_

"_Again, yes."_

If Crunie was the least bit intimidated by his interrogation, he did not show it. Interrogation—when conducted by Imperial Naval Intelligence, at least—were just that, interrogations. They might get a bit insistent that their questions be answered, but they seldom went beyond sleep deprivation. What the ISB called an interrogation, though, was more closely related to torture—and very inventive torture at that.

Crunie was clearly expecting the former from his Alliance Intelligence interrogator. Thrawn would have to meet with General Vernan—the head of Special Operations—and have him begin leaking reports of tortures: It would certainly make prisoners more talkative, even if the leaks weren't all true.

"_My apologies for leaving you here," _the interrogator said._ "You were on my list, however, I had other duties to see to. Have you been fed, Crunie? Or did my colleague see to that already?"_

"_No. He wasn't interested in more than my rank and name."_

"_Do you wish to be fed?"_

"_If possible."_

"_Of course,"_ the interrogator said, making no move to leave the room. _"It isn't often we have the son of Senator Crunie as our guest."_

"_No, I'm sure it does not happen often."_

"_But you are just that; our guest. Certainly not our prisoner," _the interrogator said. _"From how Commander Skywalker's report reads, you didn't make any attempt to escape from him."_

"_No," _Crunie admitted. _"I did not."_

When Crunie didn't speak further, the interrogator shrugged, and stood upright. As he left to find something from the officers' mess for their prisoner, Thrawn watched the captured pilot carefully.

Crunie had survived the chaotic air battle that had claimed half of the members of Rogue Squadron and countless other pilots, and even in his chronically ill-designed—for atmospheric flight, at least—strike-craft, he had killed a covey of Alliance warbirds.

But after he'd been downed and captured, by Wedge Antilles and Luke Skywalker respectively, he'd made absolutely no move to escape—even when he had had a prime opportunity.

There were other pieces to the puzzle of the man's behavior that Thrawn had assembled, and it was with only small, carefully-hidden doubts that Thrawn entered the interrogation room.

Crunie's eyebrows raised at Thrawn's distinctive blue skin and glowing eyes. "Then it's true," Crunie said.

"Oh?"

"The first spook dropped your name," Crunie explained. "I found it hard to believe."

Thrawn shrugged. "I have no doubt that the Empire has realized one of their tidied ends has come loose by now—no reason to keep my existence hidden any further." He gestured to the Imperial pilot. "I know why you are here, Wing Commander."

"If the stories about you are real, then I don't doubt you."

"And yet you hesitate to do it."

"Treason's a big step—I ought to take her out to dinner at least before I crawl between the sheets with her."

"Understandable," Thrawn said. "Metaphors aside." He smiled. "You have as much time as you require to decide, Wing Commander. A war's worth of time." He sat down across from Crunie. "Let's talk."

* * *

"This is entirely unsatisfactory, Admiral," the commander of the _Starlight_ protested stiffly. "_Starlight_ has been the pride of the fleet for as long as we've had a fleet."

"Though it may shock you, Captain Misely, I have more important duties than designating a flagship for the Navy."

Misely ground his teeth. "The _Knight_ has been cruising at the fore of the fleet for two days, Admiral. That position is the _Starlight_'s."

"The flagship."

"Precisely," Misely said. "The former Command Council understood the political necessity of keeping a Mon Cal-built ship as the flag."

"The Command Council excelled at political necessities during its existence—at the expense of our tactical capabilities."

"The Mon Cal are angry that the finest ship they've donated is trailing behind _Imperial_-built star destroyers."

"Really?" Thrawn asked coolly. "The Dac—Mon Calamari, whatever you wish to call them—will grumble and bicker over the right to shoot first in a battle. Their pride can be an expensive liability." He leaned back. "Though I find it strange that I have not heard any of these angry Dac you speak of; especially since I serve alongside a Mon Calamari rear admiral."

Misely glared at Thrawn. "The _Starlight_ is a damn fine ship," he said, changing tactics.

"She's a cruise liner with gun ports," Thrawn retorted. "At most, she's a battlecruiser."

Misely's face was colored from his anger. "She's an Alliance warship and I will not stand here—"

"Enough," Thrawn said. His voice was quiet, but the alien tone he'd spoken in was utterly cold. When he spoke again, it was with his normal accent. "You will carry out your orders, Captain. The _Starlight_ is an Alliance warship, and you are a sworn officer of the Alliance." Thrawn stared directly at Misely. "There is little room in my Navy for politics."

Misely blinked. "_Your_ Navy?" he asked. "I thought this was the peoples' navy." His tone was bitter and caustic.

Thrawn gestured to the hatchway without answering. "You are dismissed."

Misely grimaced, but saluted carefully, and turned away.

A protocol droid, TC-32, entered the Admiral's quarters._ "There is a Commander Skywalker to see you, Admiral,"_ it said, a hint of simulated fatigue coming from its vocal synthesizer.

Without Sheplin to act as his aide, Thrawn found his load of flimsi-work overbearing, and he had detailed two droids—TC-32, and XP-04—to help sift through the flimsi-work, as well as to keep him up-to-date on matters that concerned him—and some that didn't.

But a droid—or even two of the machines—could never match Sheplin's instinctive abilities. They simply could not match an organic's intuition with their adaptive programming.

For a moment, Thrawn was tempted to turn away the executive officer of Rogue Squadron, to give him a few more moments of respite from the endless meetings, but the desire was illogical and irresponsible. "Send him in," Thrawn said.

The TC-32 nodded. _"Of course,"_ it said.

Lieutenant Commander Luke Skywalker entered Thrawn's office, wearing a fresh change of clothes and having recently washed.

Skywalker saluted before Thrawn's desk. "Sir," he said.

Thrawn returned his salute. "Aside from that night in the _Starlight_'s hold, I do not believe we have met formally, Commander, but I have heard much about you from Commander Antilles."

Luke nodded. "I believe that's correct, sir." He looked terribly uncomfortable meeting with an admiral. "I understand your duties are numerous, so thank you for seeing me, sir."

Thrawn nodded, waiting silently. Sheplin would have taken care of meeting with the pilots and junior officers, had he been well enough to walk. As it was, Thrawn was not only stuck with the mountains of flimsi-work, but with meeting after meeting as well.

"I wish to request one month's leave, sir."

Thrawn nodded again, raising his eyebrows. "Why?"

Luke grimaced. "I…I'm not certain I can tell you, sir."

The calm statement from a lieutenant commander to a full admiral that he could not explain it would have been an insult to many men in Thrawn's position, but Thrawn simply shrugged—Skywalker had meant no disrespect, he was certain.

"In the days of the Old Republic, the phrase 'Jedi business' would have sufficed."

Luke was very still for a moment. "How did you know I was a Jedi, sir?" he asked finally.

Thrawn smiled. "I knew you were one the first day I saw you, you were stepping off of the_ Falcon_ on Yavin Four." Thrawn quirked his head to the side. "You had a lightsaber clipped to your tunic." He shrugged again. "Though that is far from the only clue.

"To begin; your incredible shot at Yavin was beyond miraculous, though I have seen a similar feat once in the past…from a Jedi. You have also been observed while carrying out what I can only assume is some sort of saber drill." He motioned for Luke to sit. "That, and you look very much like your father."

Luke froze. "My father?" he asked, shocked.

"Yes, I knew him." The words seemed to spark a hundred questions from Luke, but the young officer swallowed all of them, knowing it was bad manners to babble in front of an admiral. Thrawn leaned back in his seat. "Your request is denied, Commander."

Luke seemed to physically deflate before the admiral. "Aye, sir," he said.

Thrawn tapped his fingers on the desk. "Commander Antilles is putting Rogue Squadron back together, Skywalker, and he will need his exec now more than ever." He was silent for another moment. "Why did you need a month's leave, Commander?" he asked. "What was your 'Jedi business'?"

Luke was silent for a moment. "I don't believe I can tell—" he stopped abruptly, considering the wisdom of not telling anyone. Thrawn waited patiently, intrigued. He knew the story would come out if he gave Skywalker enough time.

* * *

Thrawn stared at the closed hatch unseeingly.

Luke's story—as unlikely and mystical as it seemed to his rational mind—had the spark of truth in it.

The Jedi were one of the few mysteries that he had never made inroads with. They were far too eclectic of an order of warriors to understand, and the Force did not—and _could not_—make sense to Thrawn's neatly-ordered mind.

Still, if there was even a one in quadrillion chance that there was still a fully-trained Jedi alive in the galaxy who could assist the Alliance…

Thrawn tapped the built-in comlink on his desk. "Please inform General Dodonna that I wish to see him at his earliest convenience."

TC-32 responded, _"Yes, Admiral."_

* * *

General Jan Dodonna was a well-built man, with figures that made him—despite his age—look as though he had been carved from marble. He had commanded the Alliance forces during the Battle of Yavin, though his battleplans had not been approved by the now-defunct Alliance Command Council, and had cost him his position as Commander-in-Chief.

Now he headed the Special Forces Command and still had his fingers in as many pies as he could handle.

"Good to see you, General," Thrawn said.

"Likewise, Admiral," Dodonna responded. If Dodonna's respect for the Chiss had waned any since Hoth, it was impossible to tell.

"I have a job for you."

Dodonna nodded, understanding immediately that Thrawn was about to give him and his branch a high-priority special operation. "Of course, Admiral."

"I need a VIP retrieved from Dagobah, without the eyebrow-raising effect a squadron of star destroyers would have," Thrawn said.

Dodonna pursed his lips, thinking silently. "When do you need the VIP?"

"As soon as possible."

Dodonna nodded. "There's been some troubles getting SpecForce back to operational strength—Hoth took a lot of us." His eyes turned curious. "Who's the VIP?"

Thrawn smiled. "The last Jedi."


	10. Chapter Six—Octavian Grant

**OCTAVIAN GRANT**

I thank the Maker that I was alive to see the Thrawn Campaigns.

—From _The Thrawn Campaigns: 0 ABY—1 ABY  
_by Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, IN, Retired

* * *

_**Kuat, Core Worlds, 0 ABY**_

Grand Admiral Octavian Grant watched the thousands of vessels through the triangular ports on the bridge of the _Executor_-class dreadnought _Sword of Anaxes_.

In the entire multi-millennia long history of the galaxy, several fleets as large as the new Fourth Oversector Group had been assembled, but not many. Over three hundred _Imperial_-class star destroyers cruised in formation, forming a solid wall of battleships, and twenty dreadnoughts cruised in five squadrons, ready to unleash their awesome, fleet-destroying power.

Thousands upon thousands of support ships—some as small as corvettes, and some as large as battlecruisers—filled the gaps of the fleet's ship roles, providing every kind of imaginable support.

And yet, for all of their awesome, unimaginably destructive power, they were only roughly at half-strength.

Tarkin and his New Navy lackeys—though support for Tarkin's ideas had waned when the megalomaniac had been killed aboard the Death Star—had imagined the future of the Navy as planetoid-sized battlestations, but Grant and every true spacer knew that Tarkin's delusional superweapons would never be an iota as powerful as their current navy-in-being.

The Fourth Oversector Group could have destroyed the Death Star easily in battle, and had cost no more than the gargantuan battlestation.

Still, despite its current size and power, Octavian Grant was not ready to face Thrawn with his Oversector Group. The Chiss was as wily of a foe that could be imagined, and unless Grant outnumbered him by a comfortable margin—forty-to-one, for instance—he was content to continue to rally his forces.

The Emperor though, was not content to wait

Grand Admiral Grant had been given six months to either kill Thrawn, or take him prisoner, by the Emperor of the known galaxy. Not to destroy the Rebellion, but to take _Thrawn_ out of the equation.

Grant didn't know if he could kill Thrawn in six months, or even six years, but he was honor-bound to try.

A dark presence fell over the bridge, and the murmur of conversation stilled instantly. Grant turned around, and studied the approaching man…if he could still be called that.

Darth Vader, one of the two Dark Lords of the Sith, had once been a man—at least Grant assumed he had been a man—but now he was a mass of tortured flesh, encased in a tomb-like suit of armor and cybernetics. His face was hidden behind a dark, expressionless mask, designed to evoke memories of ancient Sith warriors, and the steady breathing from respirators filled all who lived with terror.

"_The Emperor is displeased,"_ Vader said, his deep, baritone synthesizers making him sound as menacing as his dress made him look. _"He is impatient to see an end to the traitor."_

Grant looked straight at the opaque eyes of Vader's mask. "I do not give a damn what the Emperor is or is not pleased by."

For a moment, the bridge staffers stood in stunned silence. Vader's reputation for killing officers who annoyed him was legendary, and they expected to see their commander fall to the deck plating, with his head removed, any moment now.

Vader did not move an inch. _"The Emperor has entrusted you with this task, Grand Admiral," _he said. _"Do not expect his trust to spare you from me, should you fail."_ The Dark Lord turned away, walking to a port where he could observe the fleet.

"And do not expect the Emperor's impatience to give us victory over Thrawn," Grant retorted coldly. "I am in command of this campaign, not you, and not our Emperor. We will sortie when _I_ am ready."

Vader did not respond.

"Ship coming out of hyperspace, Grand Admiral," a staffer reported hesitantly.

Grant turned away from the ports, and began walking to the crew pit that held the staffer. "Identify," he commanded.

The computers worked for a moment. "She's the _Resolute_, sir, a _Mandator_ out of Hoth. Admiral Fletcher commanding, with two legions of Stormtroopers aboard. She was engaged at Hoth." The staffer glanced at the readouts again. "There is an ISB Colonel, Hiram Flynn, aboard as well, sir."

Darth Vader's soles clacked against the plating as he appeared at the lip of the crew pit. _"The Stormtroopers are mine, Grand Admiral."_

Grant nodded silently. He may have been in command of the Fourth Oversector Fleet, but Vader commanded the Third Oversector Army as the junior commander in the operation, and had full authority over any non-Marine units.

"I want Flynn and Fletcher debriefed, lieutenant," Grant said.

* * *

Flynn watched the propaganda holovids quietly, while the white-uniformed grand admiral read his report.

"—_the discovery of the foundry system in Kol Huro shall provide the oppressed peoples of the Outer Rim a new economic start, and lead the Navy to a speedier victory in the Rimward systems!"_

Flynn could nearly smell Ison's handiwork in the propaganda, as only the deputy director of the Imperial Security Bureau could have ordered such truly audacious lies created. There was no mention of the Imperial task group that had gotten itself shot to bits by a converted light cruiser in the process of 'discovering' Kol Huro, or that the Rebels had captured three _star destroyers_ in the battle.

The next piece of propaganda was even more audacious:

"_Rebel treachery! In the Outer Rim system of Hoth, a terrorists cell has been besieged by the brave men of the Imperial Navy and Stormtrooper Corps." _A recording of a squad of Stormtroopers clearing a corridor of the Rebels' base on Hoth appeared, while the narrator continued to speak: _"Refusing to accept their hopeless position"_—the recording switched to show the Imperial assault advancing—_"the terrorists refused to surrender to Imperial Admiral Fletcher."_ The recording switched to the terrible casualties strewn across the snowy plains of Hoth. _"Over ten thousand terrorists were executed in the ensuing conflict."_

Flynn wondered if anyone believed their own propaganda. Perhaps a few blue-blooded nobles in the Core did, but he doubted anyone else would be stupid enough to believe the exaggerations and outright lies.

The holo-projector switched to an economic report—all of the figures being wildly exaggerated, of course—and Flynn reached over and switched it off.

Grant glanced up at the sudden dearth of sound. "I see you do not care for His Grace's facts," he commented dryly.

It was a dangerous question, and Flynn gave a dangerous answer: "Not when they're told so blatantly."

Grant smiled at Flynn, as a man might to an equal, and he set the report down. "You shot the captain of the _Resolute_?" he asked.

"Just as quickly as I could."

Grant's eyebrows rose. "Do you make a habit of killing Naval officers then, or just captains?"

"I kill men who endanger the mission. Captain-Baron Wren endangered the mission and the lives of men under his command by keeping knowledge of the enemy commander to himself."

Grant nodded. "From what I heard, he wasn't a terrible loss." He smiled slightly. "Don't make a habit of it though, Colonel, just relieve men like that of command."

"I confess that my actions were not…measured."

Grant looked right at the ISB colonel. "After facing Thrawn, I wouldn't be measured either." He stood up, preparing to leave. "Wren died while heroically cleaning his sidearm from what I've read in your report, correct?"

Flynn smiled. "I'm only sorry I wasn't there to tell him to check the charge. The brave baron would still be among the living if I had been."

Grant's smile turned sour. "Don't overdo it."

Flynn snorted.

"Is it really him?" Grant asked after a moment, his voice quiet.

Flynn looked right at Grant. "I saw Thrawn myself, just as I said in my report," he said. "I should have pulled the trigger, and saved the Empire the trouble of hunting him down." He glanced down at the table for a moment. "But even an ISB agent has his limits, Grand Admiral…and I couldn't shoot an honorable man in the back." He was shaking, surprising Grant. "Bit of a failure there, I suppose."

Grant tried to blink away a burst of emotion. Thrawn was an enemy of the Empire, but such a dishonorable death—being shot in the back by a man he'd never get to see—was unfathomable for such a…_good _man.

Grant knew Thrawn. He'd fought beside him in the past, and they'd razed entire star systems in the Emperor's name together, but never once had the Chiss given into the momentary drug of amorality like so many of his comrades. And living with the horror and pain without side-stepping it had endeared the Chiss grand admiral to Grant.

He did not like aliens, but Thrawn was not like an alien to him. He was simply a good man caught on the wrong side, and _Veaue_, how he would hate killing him.


	11. Chapter Seven—Voss Parck

**VOSS PARCK**

The Empire of the Hand—a true anomaly in a galaxy filled with terrors, corruption and idealism.

—From _The Duel of Empires  
_by Galen Corr, Historian

* * *

_**Nirauan, Wild Space, 0 ABY**_

Voss Parck woke suddenly, his comlink trilling. He groaned, and pushed himself up from his bed, stumbling in the dark until his hand closed around the smooth cylinder that was the comlink.

"Parck, go ahead," he said simply. He glanced at a chrono—it was early.

"_Vun'ur-Boo,"_ Commodore Marro'lit'zuore's voice said in greeting. _"_He_ has contacted us."_

Parck came awake instantly. "When?" he demanded.

"_He is waiting as we speak. He is using a priority channel on the Epiton Relay."_ The Epiton Relay was a series of hypercomm relays maintained by the Empire of the Hand, and was the only FTL comm system connecting Wild Space to the rest of the 'civilized' galaxy.

Parck was still in his sleepwear, and had a night's worth of growth on his face. For a moment, he considered changing into his uniform and shaving, before taking Thrawn's comm. He shook his head; Thrawn would not wish to be delayed by Parck's vanity.

"Put him through, now," The Captain said, moving toward a holo-emitter mounted on his desk.

"_As you command, Vun'ur-Boo."_

The holo-emitter suddenly glowed, and Parck could hear the spinning of a fan as it warmed up—it was an old model. A moment later, a figure grew from the holo-emitter. The false-colors of the hologram hid the distinctive, crimson eyes Parck knew the man had. The figure nodded to him. _"I trust you are well, my friend?"_ Thrawn asked in greeting.

"I believe I am faring better than we believed you were, Vun'ur-Vun'bovah."

"_Oh?"_

"We were informed you were dead, sir."

"_To shamelessly steal a famous line; reports of my death were greatly exaggerated."_

Parck had to smile a little, though it quickly vanished. "Vun'ur-Vun'bovah, the sorrow we felt after the bombing—"

"_Water under the bridge, Captain,"_ Thrawn said, interrupting his old friend. _"If I could have avoided causing you and the Council of the Hand sorrow, I would have, but secrecy was required."_

Parck nodded once. "Of course, sir."

Thrawn nodded as well. _"I have complete confidence that the Empire of the Hand was, and is, safe in your hands, Captain. Anything you did after my 'death,' I will support unequivocally."_

Parck nodded again. "Thank you, Vun'ur-Vun'bovah."

"_I would not have made you the __Vun'ur-Boo unless I trusted you, Captain,"_ Thrawn said. _"What the situation with the Far Outsiders?"_

Parck's expression darkened. "They have taken a handful of systems," he said. "Crispin, Retori…their scouts have been spotted roaming as far as Ach-To."

"_There has been no attack?"_

"Not yet."

Thrawn closed his eyes in relief from the information. _"Bin'vah Bei."_

"In your absence, I have positioned the First and Third Fleets at Bogo Rai, for strategic flexibility," Parck said.

"_And what of the Second?"_

"The Second Fleet awaits your command, Vun'ur-Vun'bovah."

Thrawn's eyes narrowed. _"You can hold the Outsiders with two fleets?"_

"They will not attack for a while; the Outsiders are consolidating their forces, as well as convening with their 'priests.' You need the ships worse than we do, I fear." He was silent for a moment, as he considered the question fully. "Perhaps the Ascendancy could be persuaded—"

"_The Ascendancy will not assist us. Not until their sovereignty has been violated by the Outsiders."_ Thrawn stared at Parck. _"I will ask you again; can you hold them with two fleets?"_

Parck swallowed, but met Thrawn's gaze. "Yes." He hesitated. "The Ascendancy…"

"_What have they done this time?"_

He closed his eyes. "It's less what they did, and more what they _tried_ to do," he said. Thrawn stared at him, waiting. "An ISB agent contacted them, trying to figure out who you were," Parck explained, "and the Ascendancy was perfectly willing to sell information on you."

"_But they didn't."_

"Well, their price was too high."

Thrawn's face, which had been somewhat relaxed, while he spoke to Parck, froze cold, and—despite the false-color of the hologram—his fiery eyes become very dangerous. _"I will deal with my own people,"_ he promised coldly. _"When the time is right."_

* * *

Parck entered the hushed room, feeling the eyes of the Council of the Hand on him. He stood for a moment in silence, before turning to Admiral Sarria Thek. "Rally the Second Fleet, Admiral," he ordered quietly.

There was a moment of surprise. "As you command, Vun'ur-Boo," Thek responded, after a second.

Parck looked around the room, studying every face, both Chiss and Human. "There is not a man—or woman—in this room who would be here without Vun'ur-Vun'bovah," he said.

"We have all come here to serve Thrawn." He looked at Commodore Marro'lit'zuore. "Some, because they knew the Far Outsiders were coming." He turned to look at Admiral Thek. "Some, because they had never known true loyalty or honor until they had met _him_."

He smiled, looking at his own hands. "And some, because they couldn't help themselves," he said softly. He glanced up at the Council. "Is there a man here who would not die for the Vun'ur-Vun'bovah?"

Not a man or woman, Human or alien, said a word.

"From this day forward, the Empire of the Hand is a free and independent nation, and all ties to the New Order are severed." There were looks of sorrow, on the faces of some of the officers, and expressions of utter joy on the faces of the others. "Our Vun'ur-Vun'bovah needs our help, and we are going to war with the Empire."


	12. Chapter Eight—Wedge Antilles

**WEDGE ANTILLES**

_Tiu Bey Uhl hom de Fripono Scatr, Hyon don ili viv Fho ili homoj, ili ili, Il ili fraho._

(These are the men of Rogue Squadron, who gave their lives for their peoples, their cause, and their brothers.)

—The plaque beneath Rogue Pillar,  
inscribed in Old Corellian

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Wedge Antilles looked the new pilots over with a cool, dispassionate glance.

"I am Commander Antilles," he said, to begin. "You will refer to me as 'Commander' or 'sir.' I am the commanding officer of Rogue Squadron, and we, gentlemen, are the finest karking pilots in the universe."

He gestured to Luke, who was standing at Wedge's side. "This is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Skywalker. And yes, he is _that_ Skywalker. You will refer to him as you would to me: 'Commander' or 'sir.'" He gazed at them passively. "You five have been selected to be Rogues."

The pilots looked among themselves for a moment, while the short Corellian paused for breath again. They had all heard of Rogue Squadron's impressive feats, though they hadn't realized how young the C.O. of the squadron was. He was, in fact, younger than all but two of the new pilots.

"None of you will ever be another Biggs Darklighter, or another Jek Porkins," Wedge said. "They, and the other fallen men of Rogue Squadron, are heroes. But I will tell you now that there are no heroes among the living." He pointed at one pilot's chest. "You are not a hero, and you never will be until you have given your life to save your brothers—and that is what we are; brothers." He tapped his own chest. "I am no hero." He tapped Luke's chest. "And even Commander Skywalker is not a hero."

The pilots were obviously uncomfortable, save for one: Arthur Crunie. He had never heard a speech like this from a C.O., but he understood what Wedge was trying to pound into the green pilots' minds—he had learned it the hard way in the Imperial Navy.

"I will drive you beyond what you think is possible, certainly beyond what your flight instructors thought was possible, and you will hate me for it." Wedge smiled thinly. "In time you will either learn to love me, or try to kill me. Try the latter, and you'll find I'm a tough bashard to kill. Do the former, and I'll walk through Halle for you.

"If you believe in gods then you had better give your soul to them; the rest of your wagyxs' belong to me now."

* * *

"I think you might have gone a little over the top, Wedge," Luke commented wryly, after the green pilots had shuffled out of the little flight briefing room that sat next to the port flight deck of the _Knight_, heading to the dressing room.

"Maybe," Wedge admitted. "But I always hate an officer who lies."

"They didn't believe what you said about heroes," Luke said, sitting stiffly on a flat bench. "They aren't going to believe you until their first battle." He laughed suddenly, though it was a hollow sound. "But what do I know? I've been in the Navy for all of…eight months."

Wedge was only two years older than Luke, though he'd been in the Navy nearly three times longer than his X.O., and had been flying strike-fighters since he was seventeen. "No, you know what you're saying, Luke—they didn't believe me."

"Except Crunie, of course."

"Of course."

Wedge had not yet had more than a passing word for Crunie, but he felt that he knew the man's character after having dueled him so fiercely on Hoth. Whatever he was, he clearly wasn't a wide-eyed idealist as Luke had been to begin with, or a snot-nosed punk like the rest of the green pilots; no, he was a seasoned pilot.

"Shame we couldn't get Solo," Wedge said. "Those snotties are going to take a while to get into fighting trim—our resident ne'er-do-well would have been a good help."

Luke grinned briefly. "Han didn't want to go from a ne'er-do-well to a fighter jock, and have to trade in his _Falcon_." He snorted. "Even if he would have gotten paid more, flying a T-65."

"Well he's probably smarter than all of us," Wedge said. "I'm going to take the snotties out for maneuvers, try to get them to unlearn what they learned in Flight Training and get a feel for them. You take the survivors out. Keep them on a different channel than the snotties, though, I don't want them to goad my men to do anything stupid."

"Okay, Wedge," Luke said, standing up. "We're going to have to integrate them somehow, though."

"I know, we'll start scrambling exercises in a week."

"Aye, that should do it."

* * *

"How many of you have your grav on?" Wedge asked over the squadron's channel. He could feel the gentle vibrations from his X-Wing's quadruple engines deep in his bones.

"_Six's on."_

"_Three's grav is on."_

"_Five has gravity."_

"_Four has grav."_

"_Two answers negative, Lead."_ Wedge smiled at Crunie's voice. The former Imperial pilot seemed seasoned enough, as could be told from his business-like response and lack of internal gravity.

"Rogues Three through Six, switch grav to off position," Wedge ordered.

There was a moment of confused silence, before they responded that they had done so.

"I'll forgive you that one, snotties," he said, attempting to make it sound as if he hadn't. "You were all told to use internal grav in Flight Training. Told it would help with that feeling of falling that makes you skrag your pants." He smiled wryly, realizing he was enjoying mocking Flight School too much, but that he really couldn't help himself—he'd been flying since before he could walk, after all. "Well, they're right, it does help with that; it helps churn out more cannon-fodder for the next battle too. But if you don't want to die nobly in your first battle, you'll want to be able to feel what your ship is doing, and you can't do that when your internal grav is killing the vibrations."

Wedge halted his acceleration and flipped his ship end-for-end with maneuvering thrusters, so that he could see his snotties. "All ships, pull a zero thrust one-eighty," he ordered.

The ships began turning, some too fast, and some too slow. One ship overshot the mark, and the pilot swore as he corrected for it. Crunie's ship swung over too slow, but Wedge figured that was from his unfamiliarity with the ship outside of a brief familiarization simulation, and not from lack of experience.

"Anyone skrag himself?" Wedge asked.

There was a chorus of negatives and one embarrassingly silent voice.

"Well, that's why we wear diapers." Wedge laughed, and a few voices laughed with him. "The one-eighty is the most basic maneuver you can pull," he said. "It's also one of the most effective in combat, so forget about the textbook maneuvers they drilled you with, in Flight School. The one-eighty is quick, dirty, and, when used properly, surprising as Halle.

"Most pilots—on both sides—don't understand that chasing a starfighter can be one of the most dangerous places they can be, since the pursued can pull a one-eighty—and in a TIE he can do that in about two-point-five seconds—and put plasma right down the pursuer's throat."

He could almost see Crunie snort, as the burst of static came over the headset.

"Something to add, Two?" Wedge invited.

"_Negative, Lead. Merely surprised at how much the Squadron Leader knows about eyeball capabilities."_ Crunie had learned the Alliance slang for a TIE Fighter—'eyeball'—and obviously enjoyed using it.

"That's the problem with mass-manufacturing a fighter—things like that slip out," Wedge said. He paused for a moment. "I had a couple of Y-Wings drop us some targets up ahead, so get into a stagger formation; we'll see how good your aim is."


	13. Chapter Nine—William Sheplin

**WILLIAM SHEPLIN**

The phoenix seems to be a universal concept, being present in nearly every society. The Chiss have their own myths surrounding the creature they call the k'an'evri…and in every such Chiss myth, the k'an'evri rises from the ashes of their defeat, and is bathed in the fires of war.

—From _Thrawn  
_by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

He should have died on Hoth, Sheplin knew. He had stepped forward, to defend his friend from a squad of Imperial Stormtroopers, but he should have died doing so. He should have been buried in the ice, pistol in hand, unmourned by anyone but Thrawn, and forgotten by time.

And he would have been forgotten. Governments did not build monuments to men like him; they built monuments to heroes, and he was no hero. Thrawn would have remembered, but one day even Thrawn would die, and take Sheplin's memory with him.

The tall Potsdamani man did not fear death—indeed, he had brushed by it so many times that he could no longer fear it—but he feared dying without a cause. He feared dying without being remembered.

He flinched as a corpsman peeled back his bandages, checking his wounds. He hadn't even noticed the medic's approach.

"How do you feel, Commander?" the corpsman asked.

"Alive," Sheplin croaked. "How long have I been here?"

"About a week," the corpsman answered. "You were awake for some of it."

"I don't remember," said Sheplin.

The corpsman shrugged. "Admiral Thrawn was here with you, waiting for you to wake."

Sheplin felt a twinge of regret that he'd missed seeing his friend. Thrawn had better things to do than worry over him, he knew, though. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Can I walk?" he asked.

"I wouldn't doubt it," the corpsman said. "But I wouldn't recommend it either."

Groaning, Sheplin sat up, pulling a catheter from one of his legs. "Shower," he demanded, "and my uniform."

* * *

His quarters were unoccupied, surprisingly. The crew of the _Knight_ were hardly as numerous as they had been when the ship was still under Imperial command, but there was no true empty space aboard a star destroyer, and that his quarters hadn't been reassigned bespoke of Thrawn's absolute certainty that Sheplin would recover quickly. As per usual, the Chiss had not been wrong.

Hot water from the showerhead washed away the collective grime of nearly a week in the infirmary. They must have sponged him off, during his stay, but he didn't feel like they had.

A glance in a mirror showed a growth of beard had collected on his cheeks and jaw, and he found his razor exactly where he had left it from his last stay aboard the _Imperial_-class star destroyer.

The scar along the side of his head, which he'd acquired during the Battle of Yavin, was a long, angry line, going as far down as his the hinge of his jaw. The razor caught on the scar, and he swore as blood welled from the fresh cut.

Surgeons in the Core could have removed all of his scars, but even when he'd been in the Imperial Starfleet, and that had been an option, he had refused. Every scar was a reminder of the pain of his life, and he could not afford to forget that pain.

His hair had grown out during his stay in the infirmary, and he rousted about, until he found his scissors. He was a true spacer and soldier, through and through, and trimmed his hair brutally short, to accommodate the tight confines of vac-suit's helmet, and to deny a handhold to any potential enemy.

When he came out of his quarters' head, having showered, shaved, and trimmed, he found his uniform waiting for him on his cot. The Alliance still had no official uniform—an oversight he was shocked had been allowed to continue so long—and he had kept his Imperial Navy uniform from his desertion. In a way, it was another scar to him, to remind him of the promising future in the Empire that he'd given away for Thrawn—for his friend. He dreaded the day he'd have to trade it in for whatever gaudy costume the Alliance Navy would adopt.

Holes had been burned through the front of the fabric, where bolts of plasma had bored through, but someone had taken beige-gray fabric, and patched the uniform over. It didn't look like what had been tailored for Sheplin, years prior, but it would serve well enough.

The Imperial rank plaque had been removed after his defection, and two Alliance rank pips gleamed at the collar now. The place where the rank plaque had been was slightly discolored, from having the plaque resting over the fabric for so many years. Another scar.

_Scars, _he thought._ So many scars…_

* * *

Thrawn was waiting for him, sitting behind his desk, his eyes closed. To anyone else, it would have appeared as if the alien was deep in thought, but Sheplin knew he wasn't; he was resting.

Sheplin waited at the hatch, knowing that Thrawn would acknowledge his presence sooner or later.

Thrawn opened his eyes slowly, and immediately focused on Sheplin. "Commander," he said simply, in greeting.

"Admiral."

Thrawn was silent as he stood. He walked around the desk, stopping only a few feet before Sheplin. "I have missed you, my friend," Thrawn said, extending his hand as he smiled.

Sheplin smiled in return. His wounds still hurt, but he didn't belong in a bed. Not while his friend still needed his help. He took the Chiss' hand. "As I have you, Admiral."

Thrawn looked concerned. "You are well enough to resume your duties, Commander?"

Sheplin attempted to look offended, but he couldn't quite make it work—not with the dull pain from his wounds. "Of course, Admiral." He glanced at Thrawn's desk, noting the seeming mountains of flimsi-work piled there. "I believe you need me back, Admiral."

Thrawn knew precisely what Sheplin had seen, without even looking, and smiled again, before his expression slipped slightly. "Always, William, always," he said, returning behind his desk. "You were right, on Hoth. More right than you knew."

Sheplin sat across from his friend, waiting for Thrawn to continue.

"I…was stupid, on Hoth," Thrawn admitted. "A warrior can not dare to let his judgment become clouded, and that is exactly what I did." He paused, an unusual expression coming to his face. "You were angry, perhaps even furious with me then, and yet you stepped in front of me; ready to die to protect me. That…_action_, it showed me who you are—if I didn't already know." Thrawn smiled a little. "I'm a privileged man to know you, William."

A quick, witty reply came to Sheplin's mind, but he left it unspoken. His throat was choking up a little. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I don't have much of a family, Admiral," Sheplin said. "My brother was killed by a Jedi, my mother was never there, and my father is a true believer in the New Order. All I have is you…so of course I would die for you…you're all the family I have."

Thrawn was silent as he looked at Sheplin. "I do not have much of a blood family either, my friend," he said. "Any, in fact. My brother is long dead, and I was exiled from my clan shortly after. I…you're my family, William. You have been for a long time."

Sheplin ran a hand over the patches of his uniform, feeling the stitches. "A family of k'an'evri," he said, pronouncing the Chiss word for the mythical phoenix. "Born out of ashes, and remade in fire." He snorted a little. "Vsert, I must be intolerable. There's nothing worse than an amateur philosopher."

Thrawn smiled. Sheplin was a confusing man. One moment, he would lay his soul bare, the next, he would change the subject to something utterly insipid, to quickly hide his soul again. It was far from Sheplin's only contradiction, but he understood his friend as none did.

Thrawn glanced at the bulkhead-mounted chrono, and his smile disappeared slowly. "I have an appointment with Admiral Ackbar, I'm afraid," he said, switching topics as well. "I have two tasks for you, Commander," he continued. "In your absence, I have dealt directly with Commander Antilles, and he has a…problem with certain regulations. Do what you must to alleviate it."

"Aye, Admiral." Sheplin seemed to understand just from Thrawn's tone Antilles' specific problem. He also seemed to understand that was the least of Thrawn's concerns.

"The second," Thrawn said, shaking his head slowly, regretting something, Sheplin imagined. "I find myself faced with the same problem that has faced every fleet commander in history; the need to destroy the enemy."

Sheplin nodded. The 'enemy' outnumbered their little fleet by…quite a lot. Even if the Imperial Starfleet dedicated a single percent of their numbers, he didn't doubt that they could field over five-hundred star destroyers. With Thrawn running loose throughout the Outer Rim, he imagined Imperial Center would send significantly more than a single percent of the Imperial Navy. Though…they might not actually be able to send much more than a percent. The galaxy was a big place, and despite the staggeringly large number of Imperial warships, the overwhelming majority of them would have to be spread out among the Empire, to enforce the New Order.

"They do not know our position, of course," Thrawn said. "So they will force us into the open. Into a killing ground. He tapped a control, making a holographic display of the Outer Rim appear. "They will attack a fixed position that we can not ignore…"

"Dac," Sheplin said simply.

Thrawn nodded. "I agree. The Dac have been the Alliance's strongest supporter, and they will be Grant's first choice."

"Grant?" Sheplin asked. "Octavian Grant?"

"Yes," Thrawn said, smiling slightly. "General Vernan and his men have given me several tidbits of information to work with." He held up one finger. "First: Octavian Grant is leading the Imperial force, and has been directly ordered to kill _me_ within six months." He held up a second finger. "Second: Grant's armada is…large. The latest information put his numbers at over three-hundred star destroyers, forty-odd dreadnoughts, and perhaps four-thousand support ships. He's still rallying his forces, so I expect those numbers to swell quite a bit." He smiled at Sheplin's slightly awed expression, then held up a third finger. "Finally: A second force is being assembled in the Core Worlds, but is being geared entirely toward defensive, attrition-based warfare." He closed his hand into a fist, and set it down on the desk. "Give your thoughts please, Commander."

Sheplin blinked. Quickly, he sorted through the information Thrawn had laid before him. The pain seemed to help him focus. "Grant's a good commander—I would have chosen him, if you weren't around—but he's cautious, and—unfortunately—knows you well. Luring him into a trap would be an iron-clad ciken. Uncommonly honorable man—just a bit racist too. He's from Tumis, but I'm sure you've already pulled all the artwork from his world."

He took a breath, thought carefully for a moment, then continued. "If he's been ordered to kill you within six months it indicates two things; the Emperor is scared skragless that you'll break into the Core and come looking for him, and that Grant's operating within political confines," he said. "If he had the time, he could batter us into a pulp with space-denial and attrition, but he doesn't have the time for something so…logical. If he dallies, he'll probably get his head removed."

Thrawn nodded. "And?"

Sheplin quirked his head, and grinned. "Well, forty-five-hundred ships is a lot." His smile drifted away after a brief moment. "The number of his forces—and his continued rallying—means he doesn't know our exact strength, and that he's wary of tangling with us." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "It's because he knows you, actually. He knows you well enough to know just how effective you can be with limited resources, and he knows that he'll have to have a massive advantage."

"Very good," Thrawn said. "And what of the Core Worlds force?"

"The Emperor's hedging his bets…though he's also robbing Grant of a lot of ships."

Thrawn nodded again. "I'm glad to see you can still think well, William," he said. Sheplin had the feeling that he'd just passed a test. "Which is why you'll be on Dac."

Sheplin felt himself stiffen for a moment. Dac…well, he should have seen it coming. "I…see, sir."

"Oh, don't sound so betrayed," Thrawn scolded with an amused smile. "I'll need a man on the ground to coordinate with my strike force." He smiled again, this time like a predator imagining a kill. "Though we'll let Grant do the heavy-lifting; the finest traps are always those the enemy lays for himself."


	14. Chapter Ten—Jobin Mothma

**JOBIN MOTHMA**

"Strong this planet is with the Force."

"It is one of the purest places in the galaxy."

―Yoda and the spirit of Qui-Gon Jinn

* * *

_**Dagobah, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Newly-promoted Sergeant Jobin Mothma glanced around the bay of the Incom UT-60D U-Wing, grinding his teeth as the gunship shuddered and shook. He'd always hated atmospheric insertions.

The rest of the SpecForce team didn't seem to mind the atmospheric entry at all, and he shook his head in wonder at either their nerves of steel or lack of intelligence. All it would take for the gunship-load of SpecForce operators to be turned into fiery atoms, was for the shield to fail, and from the sound the field inverter was making—

He shook his head, to dislodge the vision of being instantly disintegrated. If he was going to die in the next few minutes, worrying about it wasn't going to help any.

The Lieutenant was talking with the gunship pilot, up in the cockpit, and Jobin felt his jaw tighten. First Lieutenant Ageolston wasn't concerned about the atmospheric entry, Jobin was certain, but not because of nerves of steel. Being an idiot was more likely. But the short first lieutenant had scored high on his proficiency tests, and had powerful friends in High Command, making getting this posting as easy as asking for it.

The turbulence of the atmospheric entry eased out to a faint tremor, and Jobin sighed in relief as the shakes faded away.

"Hey, Sarge," one of the operators said to him. Mothma kept forgetting their names—they were all new faces to him. A quick glance at the name on his jacket showed he bore the name of Daber. "You look like you're gonna chuck."

"Maybe," Jobin granted. "You'd best move out of the line of fire, in case I do."

Daber laughed, and rose out of his seat, to put a little more space between him and Jobin. The SpecForce sergeant laughed as well, though it died on his lips as he looked outside the gunship port that Daber had just stopped blocking with his body, and saw a dirty trail of exhaust climbing through the atmosphere, heading right for them.

Daber hadn't yet sat down when Jobin shouted, "Incoming!"

The missile hit their shield, and the molten durasteel penetrator sliced through the ray shielding like it wasn't even there. Half of the bay was instantly shredded by the penetrator, and men didn't have a chance to scream before they were torn apart.

Jobin's head was ringing, and he found a handhold in the gory horror that had been the bay to pull himself upright. Alarms were wailing from the cockpit from the unexpected attack, and he staggered to it, as wind from the new holes in the bay snapped at his combat fatigues.

The pilot was dead, likely having been killed instantly from a piece of shrapnel that had removed half of his head. Lieutenant Ageolston was strapped in the co-pilot's seat, his face pale, and his eyes wide with horror. The control yoke moved of its own accord, and the ship lurched in response.

Quickly, Jobin unstrapped the dead pilot from his seat, and unceremoniously threw him to the deck. He climbed into the blood-spattered seat, wrapping a hand around the control yoke, and using the other to put the dead pilot's headset on. He—like a majority of SpecForce operators—had been cross-trained in the Navy's Flight School.

Half of the repulsorlifts had been blown away, and weren't responding, and only two of the engines were still receiving fuel. They were going down no matter what he did.

As he fought with the controls, he activated the ship's short-ranged, encrypted hypercomm system. "Mayday, mayday," Jobin said quickly. "This is Grendel actual. We are taking ground-fire, and are going down at—" he quickly read off the projected crash site's coordinates. "Mayday, mayday," he added, repeating the entire message.

Breaking communications silence was a decision only Lieutenant Ageolston could have officially made, but one look at him showed that he was in shock, and wouldn't be any good to anyone for a while.

The misty, clouded ground was coming up to meet them at a frightening pace, and their airspeed was still far too high. He tried redirecting some of the repulsorlifts, to slow them down, but that only made them fall faster.

Swearing, Jobin turned to shout back to the survivors, "Hold on to something!"

A moment later, they hit the trees.

* * *

Pain streaked through Jobin's body, and he gasped, then hacked at the smoke that had filled his lungs. The pain was good; it meant he'd survived the crash. The smoke, though, wasn't good; burning wasn't his idea of a good death.

The transparisteel cockpit of the U-Wing was cracked from the crash, where a gnarled branch had slammed into it. There was blood on the control yoke—his.

"Come on, Sarge," a voice behind him said. Hands grabbed him by his arms, and pulled him out of his seat. He wanted to snap at whoever it was, to tell them he was fine, but he didn't—he didn't have enough strength.

Lieutenant Ageolston was sitting at the base of a tree, bleeding from a superficial cut to his forehead. He didn't seem to see the burning gunship.

The soldier who'd been carrying Jobin laid him on the spongy soil, and began checking him over. It was Daber. He prodded at Jobin, and carefully checked him for cuts and abrasions. When he touched Jobin's rib cage, the Chandrilan sergeant let out a hiss of air and expletives.

"What's wrong with him?" Jobin managed to ask, pointing weakly at Ageolston.

Daber halted his search for wounds for a moment, looking at their Lieutenant. "Shock, probably. Hell, who knows?"

Jobin nodded, and groaned as Daber began wrapping his ribs tightly. He didn't know if he'd actually broke some, or instead fractured them, but wrapping them was the only thing they could do right now.

"We need to move," he said. Whoever had shot them down with that SAM would doubtless know where they'd crashed, and come looking for them. The briefings had indicated that the planet was uninhabited—except for the VIP they were supposed to extract—but it wouldn't be the first time their intelligence had turned out to be faulty. Jobin planned on having a long talk with their briefing officer—preferably where they wouldn't find that karker's body for a while.

"Well," Daber said, "your legs are good; should be able to walk."

Jobin nodded, and let Daber help him as he stood up.

Lieutenant Ageolston was rocking himself gently now, his eyes vacant. "Get the L.T. on his feet," Jobin ordered. "We've still got a job to do."


	15. Chapter Eleven—Wedge Antilles

**WEDGE ANTILLES**

It takes a unique man to fly a starfighter. He has to be tough as steel, cool in battle, willing to fight and die in a ship smaller than most living rooms, and, most of all, crazy enough to do it for a living.

—From _The Dogfighters: Rogue Squadron's Triumphs  
_by Captain Luke Skywalker, NRN, Retired  
with Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

"Hey, Wedge," Luke Skywalker said in greeting, sitting across from Wedge. The officer's mess hall was never Wedge's favorite place, being both loud and chaotic during any one given meal. It always seemed there was a meal being served in the mess halls, as there were three shifts aboard any warship, all of whom required three meals a day.

"Luke," Wedge responded.

Wedge and Luke routinely sat alone. There was a fine line, Wedge had discovered, between being respected by his men, and being considered 'one of the guys.' He was sociable enough to his subordinates, but only his executive officer ate with him at the same table.

The pilots of _Knight_'s air wing nodded to the pilots of Rogue Squadron. There was a mistrust of the elite squadron's pilots by their fellow pilots, but that only stemmed from Rogue Squadron being—except for unique circumstances—exempt from the grinding CAP duties. Every pilot who was honest had to admit that the pilots of Rogue Squadron were among the finest warbird drivers in the galaxy.

"Commander Antilles," a voice said, while someone sat beside Wedge.

Wedge blinked in surprise at the newcomer, and then again when he realized it was Commander William Sheplin.

"Commander," Wedge said, making a little more room.

Sheplin had no serving tray, and, now that Wedge had thought about it, he realized that he had never seen Thrawn's aide-de-camp eating. That didn't really surprise him though, since Sheplin was the odd man out, among his fellow Imperial defectors, most of whom would have used a visit to the mess hall as an excuse to grab another meal.

Most Imperial defectors fled the Imperial Armed Services to escape the yoke of burdensome regulations and the regimented lifestyle, but Sheplin still adhered to the honor of the Core, as well as the regulations of whatever navy he served. He was an officer in every sense of the word—unlike too many of the defectors—and something as unimportant as stealing a meal that hadn't been scheduled for him probably never even entered Sheplin's mind.

"Glad to see you walking around," Wedge said. He reached out with his hand. "Quick recovery."

Sheplin nodded, and accepted his hand. Then shook Luke's hand, before the executive officer returned to eating. The Potsdamani officer looked a little drawn from his experiences a week earlier, and Wedge noticed that the man was sitting very, very carefully.

How Sheplin had ended up in the sickbay for a week was still a mystery to Wedge and nearly everyone else. Loose-lipped corpsmen had let the ship know that Thrawn's aide had suffered from an acute onset of plasma burns, but who he had gotten into a firefight with was still unknown.

The rumor mill was working overtime on the details of Sheplin's encounter, and the two prevailing stories were either that the officer had somehow found himself in close quarters with blaster-toting wampas; or had been dueling another officer over a lady's honor. Both seemed unlikely.

Wedge glanced at the former Imperial officer sitting at their table, and found that Potsdamani man was looking at where the engineers of the flight decks were sitting. His gaze was centered on Lieutenant Thorne. Irrationally, Wedge felt a little jealousy at the focus of Sheplin's gaze.

"I hear you have some problems with Alliance Navy regulations," Sheplin commented, his gaze still fixated on Thorne.

Luke stopped eating, looking up curiously. Wedge froze, before relaxing slightly; Sheplin was as close to Thrawn as could be. Luke though, had only heard some of the rumors about Wedge and Thorne, and hadn't wanted to ask Wedge if any of them were true.

"Wedge?" Luke questioned.

Wedge lifted a placating hand toward Luke, finally attracting Sheplin's gaze with his own. "And?"

Sheplin smiled a little. "I doubt I can park her across the hall from you, but I can try to get her closer," he said.

Wedge's eyes opened wide. "That would be…pleasant."

"I don't want to hear about it," Sheplin said. "Ever. Keep it to yourself, and, for Vsert's sake, don't flaunt it." He smiled again, before standing up. "Pleasant to see you, Skywalker," he said to Luke, before pausing. "Oh yes. Your Jedi friend should be arriving soon—I believe our team should have made planetfall by now." He nodded. "Good afternoon."

After the tall, scarred Potsdamani officer had walked away, Luke leaned across the table a little, and said, "Would you like to tell me what's going on with you and…that girl, Wedge?"

"Use your imagination," Wedge said, smiling a little.

* * *

"Alright, snotties," Wedge said over the squadron-wide channel. "You've been doing good—which usually means that Flight School didn't do a good job." He laughed, and received a few over the channel. "We're doing something new now though. Luke?"

"_Rogue Two copies, Lead,"_ Luke said. He was flying as Rogue Two today.

"Take Rogues Four, Seven, Five, Nine, and Eleven. We're starting our scrambles."

"_Aye, Lead. Four, Seven, Five, Nine, Eleven; form up on my port wing. Switch channel to point-seven-three-eight, and switch those boxes the techs installed on."_

"Three, Six, Eight, Ten, Twelve; form up on me, and keep your comms on this channel. Switch the boxes to the on position."

There was a bit of confusion, it seemed, but the Rogues, new and old alike, carried out their orders. Wedge angled away from Luke's flight, putting a little more space between them.

"This is going to be a new one for you, kids," Wedge said, despite knowing he was one of the youngest members of the Squadron. "Scrambling exercise." He smiled. "It's why we're flying clean, and haven't got any plasma in our pipes—it'd be embarrassing to accidentally kill your best friend.

"The specifics aren't important, but pulling the firing stud simulates a burst in every way; including draining capacitors. No conc missiles or torpedoes today—I want to see just how good you all are in CQB first."

He checked the sensor display. "And…we've got enough distance to call it fair. Battle starts now."

Wedge flipped his ship around toward Luke's group, and lost half of his flight in the progress. "Keep up," he ordered. "You don't want to leave your mate uncovered."

"_Got your back, Lead,"_ Rogue Three—Crunie—said. Indeed, he had stayed right on Wedge's flank all through the maneuver. His familiarity with the T-65 was still a shadow of Wedge's, but he had enough understanding of his machine to keep up.

"Good," Wedge said, "'cause you're flying wingman to me."

The box that simulated all weapons fire also converted all ships not on the same channel into hostiles on the sensors. The sensors showed that Luke's flight was coming right at them, and that it was getting closer by the second.

The members of Wedge's flight had managed to regroup on Wedge's flank, automatically pairing off into two-men groups. The first rule of fighting—in Wedge's book, at least—was to never fight alone, even if he broke that rule often as not.

The two groups were now close enough that visual contact was possible, and Wedge's eyes studied the formation Luke had chosen with appreciation. The farm boy, now turned combat pilot, had arrayed his six-ship flight in a hexagon, so that all of his ships could fire forward and not worry about blowing off a wingman's S-Foil.

The groups were shockingly close when Wedge ordered a terse, "Break!"

It was chaos and confusion, like all close quarter battles, and Wedge squeezed the firing stud while his stomach tried to keep up with his maneuvers. _"One on your tail, Lead!" _Crunie's voice snapped. _"Bank right!"_

Wedge did as his wingman commanded instantly, and a gratified _"Got him!"_ from Crunie rang out over the comm.

He squeezed the firing stud again, feeling queer as nothing shot from his cannons, but a tone blared suddenly from the box, indicating that he'd just blown Rogue Seven out of the sky.

* * *

The debrief room held only the tired, sweaty, grinning pilots of Rogue Squadron. Wedge was standing at the podium the commander of the air group used to brief his pilots. He smiled a little. "Not bad, kids," he said. His use of 'kids' seemed appropriate, somehow, despite most of them being older than him.

"We'll work on it again tomorrow, but you're all dismissed for today. Hit the showers and the mess, then get some rack time."

The pilots stood upright from where they had been lounging in schoolchair-looking seats.

They were a strange, ragged lot, the pilots. They were mostly Corellians like Wedge, but a few from the Rim, like Luke, had found their way into the elite squadron.

"Not you, Crunie," Wedge said. "I'll have a word with you."

"Aye, sir," Crunie said.

Wedge waited until the room was cleared, and leaned against the podium, resting on his hands in a relaxed manner. "You're a good flier," he said.

"Thank you, Commander."

"And you're a Corellian. In my book that's enough…usually."

Crunie nodded, his lips flattening out. Obviously, he could see where the conversation was going.

"I've flown next to deserters before, Crunie," Wedge said. "It never ends well. Sometimes they choke, hesitate…other times they have a change of heart when they see someone they knew getting blown apart."

"Sir, I—"

"You'll let me finish, Crunie," Wedge said, his tone cutting Crunie's sentence in half. "I don't give two skrags and a flying kark if you used to drive TIEs and not Incoms. I care whether or not you can do this.

"It's not easy to desert, I figure, but killing men you flew next to? That has to be even harder. Takes either a damned cold bashard, or a man who spends his nights crying." Wedge shook his head. "So I'll only ask you once; can you do this?"

Crunie didn't speak right away, as he let everything that Wedge had said sink into his soul. "I don't know," he said softly. "Defecting, leaving my father behind…that was something I knew I could do. But I don't know if I could kill a man I broke bread with."

Wedge nodded a little. "You're an honest man," he said. "If you'd answered 'yes' or 'no,' I would have sacked you—I can't have a man who doesn't feel in the Squadron, or a man who knows he can't pull the trigger." He was quiet for a moment, before letting out a stream of air in the form of a sigh. "You'll get a fair chance, Crunie, I promise you that."


	16. Chapter Twelve—Gial Ackbar

**GIAL ACKBAR**

Many modern historians—especially those from the New Republic—believe that Thrawn manipulated Ackbar at every turn. I myself believe that it's far more likely that Ackbar simply believed in Thrawn.

—From _1 ABY-2 ABY: The Duel in the Dark  
_by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Rear Admiral Gial Ackbar was ushered into the stateroom of the _Starlight_ by four enlisted spacers. He was surprised to see no Marines guarding the hatchways, but then uneasily realized that Thrawn's rather…close relationship with the elite spaceborne infantry would make that rather unpolitic aboard the official flagship.

Instead, carbine-armed spacers stood guard at the hatchways. They eyed Ackbar with a surprising amount of distrust, but saluted as he passed by them. His escort peeled away, and he heard the hatch close behind him, as he was left in the stateroom.

"Good day, Admiral," Senator Mon Mothma said, smiling her practiced politician's smile. "Do you care for refreshment?"

Ackbar warily eyed the rest of the occupants of the stateroom. They were all politicians, almost to the man. His gaze fell on Leia Organa, and his severe expression eased slightly. "No, Senator, thank you."

Mothma nodded. "Very well, Admiral. Please have a seat."

"Why am I here?" Ackbar asked instead, remaining standing.

There were some disconcerted murmuring among the politicians. Most of them had been among those that had called for Mothma's removal from office, when she'd dissolved the Command Council, but they seemed willing enough to work with Mothma right now…to whatever purpose. "I believe you've spent too much time with Thrawn," one politician said, after Ackbar refused to take a seat. The politician's avian-looking face was tattooed intricately in the custom of his people. Ackbar couldn't even remember the name of the politician's species—he seemed to recall it was rather unpronounceable anyway.

Ackbar didn't answer, and instead looked at Mothma, waiting for her to answer.

Mothma finally smiled. "You are here because you are an honorable man," she said. "And because you are the only mildly unbiased source this body can ask."

"Body?" Ackbar asked, looking among the politicians. "What is this 'body,' Senator?"

"This, Admiral, is the Opposition."

Ackbar nodded; he'd already suspected what Mothma had said. The 'Opposition' were the dissatisfied members of the Alliance, comprised, most recently, of the politicians and officers Thrawn had managed to cett off. They were rather numerous, since Thrawn managed to cett off a great many people.

"They are here to listen to your testimony, Admiral. The testimony of a man whom we can all agree is honorable."

Ackbar could see where this was leading, and he could see it in Mothma's eyes. Something that seemed to say, _Don't kark this up._

"About Thrawn," Ackbar guessed.

"Indeed," Mothma said. "There are members of the Opposition who don't trust our Chiss friend." A slight smile appeared, before she smothered it under her more neutral politician's smile.

Ackbar squared his shoulders, feeling the uniform stretch slightly. "I must protest going around the back of my superiors, Senator."

"Your protest is noted." Mothma folded her hands. "You've spent more time in private with Thrawn than any man, except for Sheplin, of course, but he is hardly unbiased." She quirked her head. "He is also conspicuously absent from the fleet, but I digress.

"Is Thrawn loyal?"

Ackbar didn't know exactly how to answer that. "In what way, Senator?"

"If he is given an order he finds repugnant, will he carry it out, regardless of his own opinions?"

Ackbar opened his mouth, before closing it suddenly. "No, of course not," he said. "He's a warrior—not a soldier."

Mothma's eyes glittered slightly. It wasn't the answer she'd wanted Ackbar to give, but she decided to follow it up anyway. "What's the difference?"

"That would depend on who you ask," Ackbar said. "In this sense, it means that Thrawn's not a droid. He does what he thinks is best. He doesn't operate well under a superior if his goals are not aligned with theirs."

"What are his goals?" Mothma asked.

Ackbar quirked his head this time. "I…don't know."

Mothma looked slightly surprised. "I would ask him, if I were you, then."

"Insanity," one politician, a representative from Ryloth, said. "You don't even know his goals, yet you fight with him."

Ackbar flattened his lips. "I don't have to know his goals to know they're good." Mothma made a gesture for Ackbar to continue. "He's a _good man_," Ackbar said simply. He looked around the room. "You don't get that, do you? He's just a good man."

"You're very loyal to him." The quiet voice seemed to speak for the entirety of the Opposition, and Ackbar looked at the pale, feminine face of Leia Organa. "Perhaps you're not the most unbiased source." Her last words were directed toward Mothma—it seemed they'd had this argument shortly before.

Ackbar shook his head violently. "Of course I'm not!" he nearly shouted. The Opposition looked at him in surprise. "Sweet Maker, we wouldn't _be here_, if it weren't for Thrawn! He saved us on Hoth, fought a delaying action against oh…eight times as many attackers." He pointed at the politicians. "And he put you on the earliest evacuation transports, making sure you would survive, while he was the _very last man_ to step off of the surface!"

Mothma made a placating gesture, and Ackbar regained control of himself. "I think we'll move on to slightly less…explosive lines of questioning," she said. Given the sudden outburst from Ackbar, a few politicians chuckled.

* * *

As the Opposition left, Ackbar stood watching them. Leia Organa paused for a moment in front of the Admiral.

"You ought to be careful what company you keep, Your Highness," Ackbar said.

She bristled a little, before she sighed. "I was the _Falcon_ with Thrawn, Admiral. I saw how much he cared for his men…but that doesn't change some things. _No man_ should have as much power as he has right now."

"He won't have it forever." Ackbar quirked his head. "These are not your kind of people, Your Highness…" he warned quietly, "be…careful."

Leia nodded gravely at his advice. She seemed to hesitate, and was about to say something in response, before she shook her head softly. "Take care of yourself, Admiral."

* * *

Ackbar pressed the buzzer mounted next to the hatchway intercom aboard _Knight_. Two Marines stood on either side of the hatch, standing stiffly at attention. _"Yes?" _an alien-accented voice asked through the intercom.

Ackbar cleared his throat. "It's Ackbar, sir," he said.

There was a slight pause. _"Come in, Admiral."_

The Marines had heard their charge's words, and opened the hatch for Ackbar, before saluting carefully. Ackbar returned the salutes with equal care.

Thrawn was sitting behind his desk, waiting. Ever since he'd sent Sheplin away—the Maker only knew to what end—it seemed like he spent more time in his office than on the bridge of _Knight_. The Chiss leaned back in his chair, setting a sheaf of flimsi down. "Admiral," he said, returning Ackbar's salute. "I expected you sooner."

"Sir?"

"The meeting, aboard _Starlight_," Thrawn clarified.

Ackbar flattened out his lips. "You arranged it?" he guessed.

"With the Senator's help." Thrawn smiled. "I had to stay anonymous, since that lot thinks I'm more likely to kill them than talk with them."

Ackbar nodded. He didn't have any doubt that Thrawn would throw every last one of the Opposition out an airlock, if he felt he had no other choice. He was glad Thrawn was trying diplomacy first. "Why me?"

Thrawn shrugged. "You're a good man," he said simply. "I didn't give you any warning, because I wanted you to tell the truth."

"I did."

"I know—and I'm glad."

There was a pause, as Ackbar considered what Mothma had told him._ I would ask him, if I were you, then._

"What…why are you here, Admiral?"

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. "Not to restore democracy to the galaxy, though that will likely be a side-effect," he said wryly. He gestured toward a chair. "Sit down, my friend. I think we need to talk."


	17. Chapter Thirteen—Octavian Grant

**OCTAVIAN GRANT**

And so it truly began.

—From _The Thrawn Campaign: 0 ABY—1 ABY  
_by Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, IN, Retired

* * *

_**Kuat Orbit, Core Worlds, 0 ABY**_

"_We have waited long enough,"_ the second of the two Dark Lords of the Sith said, his deep, baritone synthesizer giving the words a dark slant. _"The Emperor's will shall be denied no longer."_

Octavian Grant, the man tasked with hunting down and killing his old comrade, looked up from the flimsi-work arrayed across his desk as the Dark Lord burst into his quarters.

"Thrawn's doing an excellent job of denying his will, I would think," he said wryly, glancing back down to his flimsi-work.

Vader's breathing didn't falter, or in any way shift from its even rhythm, but Grant could sense the sudden, raw anger emanating from the cyborg. _"The Emperor has _commanded_ you to sortie within the day," _he said. He unclipped his lightsaber, and ignited it with a _snap-hiss_. _"I will command this armada, if you refuse to."_ The threat was reinforced by the smell of ozone from the blade of superheated plasma.

Grant refused to let any of his fear show on his face, or to let it rule his mind. "I will do as my Emperor commands," he said. "Always."

The blade collapsed back into the lightsaber, and Vader returned it to his belt. Without a word, Vader turned and stalked from Grant's quarters.

Grant watched the swirling cape drag along the decking, until the Dark Lord was gone. He shook his head, and returned his attention to the communiqué in front of him. Vader's arrival and threat were hardly unexpected, even before the message from Imperial Center had found its way into his hands.

The Emperor had commanded him to proceed with his campaign with all haste in a tersely-worded communiqué, and then commanded Vader to threaten him. That the Emperor was frightened, was the only conclusion he could reach.

Palpatine was also famous for creating feuds among his subjects, if only to keep them too occupied with destroying each other to bother trying to kill him, and he wondered if he was trying to incite one between him and Vader. It was certainly a hell of a time for infighting.

If the threat was meant to start a feud, then the Emperor would be disappointed. Grant would carry out his duty, and not step on Vader's toes—if he still had any—when it came to the Third Oversector Army. Vader might take that as a sign of weakness, but if he tried to extend his grasp into the Fourth Oversector Group he would find Grant far from weak.

But the order to sortie was only half of the Emperor's communiqué.

* * *

She was shorter than he'd expected an Emperor's Hand to be. The woman was clad in a dark, utilitarian tunic, with an equally dark cloak that seemed typical for servants of the Emperor. The cloak covered her head, but her face was visible, framed by locks of auburn hair.

Grant did not bow to her as she descended the ramp of the _Lambda_-class shuttle; a grand admiral bowed to only the Emperor. Instead, he studied her with passive gray eyes as she drew nearer. He was not as observant as his old comrade Thrawn, but he could tell that this woman—this Emperor's Hand—was dangerous.

"Grand Admiral Grant," the Hand said. She was just a few feet from Grant, her jade-green eyes boring into his. He returned her gaze evenly. "I am Mara Jade."

Grant inclined his head at her name. "Jade," he said by way of greeting. "An Emperor's Hand will be given whatever support required, of course."

"I will require little assistance, Grand Admiral," she said. "Merely a captured Rebel transport with adequate endurance."

"I'm sure they have several hundred—if not thousands—on Imperial Center," Grant said, his gaze neither unfriendly or welcoming to this agent of the Emperor. He already had Vader to deal with, and didn't need another hanger-on from the Imperial Court in his hair.

She simply smiled at his words, and walked past him. The hangar had been cleared and secured for her arrival, and Stormtroopers stood guard at the closed hatchways. "The Emperor has commanded me to coordinate my mission in tandem with your campaign," she said.

"I understand," he said.

"No, you really don't." She stopped, turning to look at him again. "I've been ordered to kill Thrawn."

He stopped as well, and something must have slipped from behind his dispassionate mask.

"That angers you?" she asked, her tone hard to read.

"No," he lied. "He's a traitor, and deserves far worse than death."

She nodded, but frowned at him; studying him with a sudden burst of scrutiny.

* * *

It was a sight unlike anything the galaxy had witnessed. The number of Imperial Navy warships that had rallied at Kuat had nearly doubled in the last week, leaving Grant in command of an armada that numbered over six thousand.

Forty dreadnoughts, new and old, made up the core of the formation, nearly half of the Navy's number of the massive ships. A thousand star destroyers, _Imperial_, _Victory_, _Venator_, and _Interdictor_-class now formed a wall of ships so wide it took half a light-minute for orders to be transmitted by conventional means. And the remaining thousands of vessels cruised as pickets and escorts, looking like gnats swarming around giants.

"A beautiful sight," Grant said. No one answered his comment, for the bridge of the _Sword of Anaxes_ was his, and his alone, with the Dark Lord Vader nowhere in sight. Mara Jade had disappeared from his world as well, having secluded herself inside her quarters.

"Signal Officer," Grant commanded, turning to look into the crew pit, at a harried-looking individual. "Give me a fleet-wide channel."

The officer nodded, and a moment later Grant's comlink chimed, notifying him that he was broadcasting.

"Spacers and officers of His Imperial Majesty's Navy, now hear this," he said slowly. "Today is a day unlike any before, and the likes of which will likely never come again. An armada that challenges the power of the stars themselves has been assembled at this place." His speech was only just now making it to the mid-wings of the formation, it was so vast. "Our goal, given to us by the Emperor himself; destroy the Rebellion." He let the words hang.

"We are the finest spacers in the history of the galaxy, aboard the finest vessels, with the most intensive training. None can stand before us. Not the Rebellion, not upjumped alien scum from the Outer Rim, and most certainly not any one man. Stand to your stations, and may you bring honor to the uniform you wear." He signaled the channel to be cut, and then blew out a stream of air. He hated speeches—and knew he was hardly the most eloquent orator.

The Rebellion would not stand, he knew, and the Outer Rim would not either, but Thrawn might. He shook his head slowly, and turned from the observation ports.

Grant turned to look at the flag captain, and he nodded his head slowly. The flag captain nodded in return.

"Sync tac-nets for hyperspace jump," the flag captain ordered. Half a minute later he said, "Execute jump orders."

One-tenth of a billion Imperial spacers, and nearly that number of ground-pounders, streaked into hyperspace, hurtling toward the one planet that Grant knew Thrawn couldn't afford to ignore. A little binary star system known as Dac.

**THE END OF PART ONE**


	18. Interlude

**INTERLUDE**


	19. Chapter Fourteen—A New Weapon

**A NEW WEAPON**

There is no such thing as a 'new' weapon. Any tool of war that you can imagine has, in some crude or sophisticated guise, come and gone in the ages before.

—From _A Treatise on Modern War  
_by Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, IN, Retired

* * *

** _Namadii, Mid Rim, 0 ABY_**

Namadii had nothing to recommend it.

A single, primitive planet on the fringes of the Mid Rim was never going to be important to the Powers That Be, especially when it was so far out in the 'Mid' Rim that it nearly bordered on Wild Space. The single inhabited planet had barely managed to pull itself out of the dark ages imposed by the fall of the Infinite Empire, over 25,000 years prior, and had never quite advanced past that.

It had taken the Empire of the Hand's Second Fleet nearly two weeks to get through the treacherous route from Nirauan to Namadii, and every second that they spent charting micro-hyperspace jumps had grated on the nerves of Admiral Sarria Thek.

The infrastructure involved in charting even a minor hyperlane was massive, and the Chiss Ascendancy, and more recently the Empire of the Hand, had . . . 'actively deterred' any charting of the Unknown Regions or Wild Space. The deterrence had worked in the favor of the Ascendancy and the Empire of the Hand for years, keeping men from the coreward regions of the galaxy from opening—even if they didn't realize it—a pathway to the Chiss homeworld. But there were times when the lack of hyperspace charting hindered the Chiss as much as their would-be enemies.

"A hundred lighyears in two weeks," the flag captain of the _Redeemed_ commented, her fiery eyes twinkling with slight humor. She wore her long, dark hair in an efficient bun at the back of her head. "I think we'd have gone faster if we'd got out and pushed."

"Your sense of humor is side-splitting, Fonn," Thek commented dryly.

Chaf'on'nuruodo smiled at her admiral's tone. "Astrogation believes it'll take three days to reach the rendezvous with Vun'ur-Vun'bovah. Now that we're in the 'known' galaxy, we shouldn't have any trouble with uncharted stars."

"That _will_ be nice," Thek murmured. Hitting a star in hyperspace was enough to ruin any person's day.

Fonn's expression grew slightly more serious once she'd let out a small laugh, but not by much. It wasn't unheard of for a Chiss officer to have a sense of humor, Thek reflected, it was just . . . odd. Most Chiss officers—and enlisted men, for that matter—took their duties _very_ seriously.

Of course, their perpetually severe expressions had quite a lot to do with the advance of the Far Outsiders. Thek's own expression grew pensive as she remembered the last briefing she'd had with Parck. The Far Outsiders weren't moving aggressively yet, and Parck still had the First and Third Fleets to hold them, but she couldn't help but wish that the Second was still standing guard in the Unknown Regions alongside her sister fleets.

_Of all the times Thrawn could have picked to fight a civil war—_ Thek stopped the thought in mid-stride. Thrawn knew what he was doing. And if he didn't, well then they'd figure it out as they went.

Thek was one of the few who didn't believe in the invincibility of the former Grand Admiral. He was brilliant beyond measure, perhaps even the most brilliant commander of their age, but he was _not_ invincible. Still, she knew that Thrawn had the best hope of doing more than just _holding _the Far Outsiders from piercing the heart of the galaxy. He was certainly doing more than the Emperor.

That thought brought a fresh stab of pain. The Emperor she had sworn a sacred oath to had betrayed her and all of the galaxy by not mobilizing every starship with a blaster strapped to it to be used against the Far Outsiders, and that realization had brought more pain than anything else. More than any other perhaps, Thek understood what had driven Thrawn to join the Rebellion.

"Sir?"

The voice startled Thek from her thoughts. The Imperial Navy had never had any use for the title of 'ma'am,' as female officers and spacers were vanishingly rare, and even though the Hand's Navy had more women in their ranks than any modern navy, the officers were still addressed by 'sir.'

"Yes?" Thek asked.

Fonn smiled slightly as she saw Thek removing herself forcefully from the reverie she'd been in. "Commander Hudson says he has something to show you, Admiral—he's been chomping at the bit for a while now, and even _I _don't know what he's up to."

When Thek nodded, Fonn gestured for a swarthy man in the red-striped beige-gray uniform to approach them. "Commander?" she invited.

Lieutenant Commander Jak Hudson nodded. The TO of _Redeemed _was intense, like most men who dealt with the engines of war daily. "Thank you, Admiral," he said quickly. Without hardly a pause for breath, he launched into it. "I apologize for intruding on your time, Admiral, but I believe . . . well, you'll see, sir."

Thek smiled slightly, amused by the tactical officer. He had his . . . _eccentricities_, but Hudson's mind was as sharp as they came . . . within the confines of the world of weaponry and tactics, at least.

Hudson handed his touchpad to Thek, who studied the image displayed in a crude three-dimensional model with a Human standing alongside it for reference. "A box," she commented. "I do hope you're not trying to tell me you invented a shipping container, Commander."

The TO blinked, the humor in her words lost on him. "No, sir," he said. "It's a refinement on the . . . ah . . . slightly unsophisticated deployment platforms Admiral Thrawn jury-rigged at Kol Hurro and Lutrillia. Well, not _at_ Lutrillia, but close to it."

For a moment, Thek stared at the star destroyer's TO. "I don't believe you were cleared for the AARs of Kol Hurro and Lutrillia, Commander," she said, all humor gone from her voice.

The suddenly frosty tone she'd used was lost on Hudson, much like the earlier humor had been. He waved a hand, as if warding away the slight irritation his admiral had brought up. "The strike-craft Admiral Thrawn used were effective enough at deploying unexpected missile salvos, but upon reviewing the sensor data forwarded by the Admiral, I realized that they are hardly the most effective methods available."

"Please slow down, Commander," Thek ordered. "What does this have to do with your box?" _And how hard will I have to slap you down for looking at things above your pay grade?_

"I was just getting to that, sir," Hudson said. He gestured to the box displayed on the screen of the touchpad. "This, sir, is the most effective deployment method I could find, short of simply tractoring the missiles in open vacuum."

Thek blinked. "Well and good, but you _do _realize that we have missile tubes to launch our birds, Commander?"

"No, no, those are too slow," Hudson said quickly, before adding, "sir."

"I realize this may be somewhat hard for you to do, Commander, but unless you slow down and explain exactly _what_ you are getting at, I swear I will personally escort you to an airlock." Thek's threat was only partially humorous.

The words seemed to penetrate Hudson's focus. "Uh . . . yes, sir." He collected his thoughts as he took a deep breath. "Okay. So." He took another deep breath. "You came up the tactical track, sir, so I'll ask you this question; one TO to another: How do you break through a capital ship's point-defense screen?"

Thek paused, thrown off-balance slightly by the question. "There are two options available to any tactical officer, Commander. You can confuse the hell out of the enemy PDs with electronic warfare and hope a bird gets through, or you can saturate their PDs with enough birds that one _has_ to get through."

"Exactly, sir," Hudson said. "But how can you saturate the point-defenses of a star destroyer, when you only have so many tubes, and they only cycle so many birds a minute?"

"Bring more than one star destroyer, or . . ." Thek trailed off. She understood. "Oh." The one word made Hudson grin while Fonn watched the two of them, afraid of interrupting lest she distract one or both from their train of thought.

"Oh," Thek repeated. "You, Commander, are one brilliant bashard."

" 'Oh,' what, Admiral?" Fonn said, finally interrupting.

"In the after-action reports Admiral Thrawn forwarded—which were _not_ for the eyes of lieutenant commanders," she shot a pointed look at Hudson "—there were mentions made to a squadron of strike-craft being used as a delivery platform for missile salvos."

Fonn nodded. " 'Rogue' Squadron. Plucky men, I'd imagine."

"No doubt," Thek agreed. "Each strike-craft carried twenty missiles, which could be salvo-fired all at once. Effectively, that single squadron had more opening-volley capability than three _Victory I_-class star destroyers."

Fonn whistled through her teeth—a distinctly Human trait, Thek thought. "But they didn't have any follow up birds, if I recall. Once they'd shot their wad they didn't have anything to send after the first volley."

"No, they didn't, but they were damned effective. They disabled three star destroyers with one volley, _and_ their escorts, and later managed to break through and damage a _dreadnought_ with a single volley."

"Impressive," Fonn agreed. "But I don't quite see what this has to do with Hudson's box." She gestured at the touchpad.

"I didn't either," Thek said, nearly grinning. She turned to Hudson. "How many birds could you cram in one of these boxes, Commander, assuming the same dimensions as what you've got here?"

Hudson didn't even have to pause to think. "One-hundred and twenty, sir." He smiled. "That's _with_ electromagnetic launch rails to give them some initial velocity."

Fonn finally understood. "Sweet Maker," she murmured. "So we load these boxes with a hundred and twenty birds and saturate the defenses of anything we shoot at with the first volley."

"Exactly," Thek said, her mind reaching out in strange and unexplored directions. "We could use the tractor emitters to keep them with us when we're in battle—or not; there are some interesting tactical choices that could be made—and swamp the PDs of a whole _fleet_. Just with a single star destroyer." Her voice was slightly awed.

"We could always just lay the boxes into the hull of the star destroyers," Fonn said, though it was clear from her tone that she didn't like the idea even as she proposed it. No sane warship commander enjoyed the thought of cutting away armor from her ship just to add a new weapons system. Besides, there would be significant problems with getting the missiles to go through the ship's own ray shielding.

Thek looked pained at the suggestion, but said, "That would be up to the Powers That Be." She was quiet for just a heartbeat. "I believe we've just evened the odds quite a bit, gentles." She smiled suddenly, though there was nothing friendly or welcoming in the predatory expression. "Quite a bit."

**THE END OF THE INTERLUDE**


	20. Part Two—The Dangerous Dance

**PART TWO  
**_The Dangerous Dance_


	21. Chapter Fifteen—Valentine Walker

**VALENTINE WALKER**

War is unfair to all involved.

—From _A Treatise on Modern War  
_by Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, IN, Retired

* * *

**_Dac, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Valentine Walker woke up suddenly, rolling sleepily out of her bunk onto the floor of her quarters. A minute later an alarm went off, and she padded across the floor to flip it off. Only skivvies kept her from lacking all modesty.

Her quarters were luxuriously large—almost sinfully large, compared to what she was used to aboard Alliance warships—and she walked to the head, to relieve herself. If she'd been on a warship—or any ship, for that matter—her rank would have forced her to walk down the corridors until she came to a communal head, but here, in Imprimis Base, she had her own private head.

She washed away whatever grime had collected over the night, hanging her head in the shower and letting the water pour over her. After she'd stepped out of the shower stall, she stared into the fogged-up mirror.

A young woman stared back at her. She wasn't beautiful, she knew that. Her face was too hard, too angular, and her auburn hair had been trimmed short to where it only came to the bottom of her ears. If it weren't for the shape of her cheekbones, she could have passed for a man.

As her green eyes scrutinized herself further in the mirror, she could almost see her mother's face in her own. The thought of the short woman that had borne her brought a longing pain for home. For the security of family. She was probably still on Dantooine, waiting patiently for her daughter and son to come home to her and the farm.

Zeno wouldn't be coming home to anyone.

Her brother, Zeno Walker, had commanded the savage, desperate counterattack on Hoth which had bought enough time for everyone still evacuating. It had cost him his life, and the life of nearly every man under his command, except for those captured by the Imperial Army.

His body hadn't been recovered, partly because Hoth was still under Imperial control, but mostly because his command tank had been blown apart by a PLEX shoulder-launched anti-armor weapon.

Zeno had fought and died only two weeks ago, and the fact that she would never see her brother's impish smile again seemed unreal. Unreal.

* * *

She wore a carefully composed mask on her features, letting none of the pilots sitting around her see just how much grief and melancholy she felt this morning. The perception of confidence and swagger were as essential for a pilot—to her mind, at least—as oxygen, and she couldn't afford to lose either of them.

The commander of the air group was lining out the pilot rotations for the week, and Valentine wasn't truly listening. She only perked up when her name or callsign was mentioned.

"Bugs," the CAG said.

Valentine swiveled her eyes to look at the Navy commander. "Sir," she said. 'Bugs,' hadn't been her choice of a callsign, but that was one of the rules of pilot callsigns; the recipients of any such name shouldn't like it.

"I'm sorry to be boring you," the CAG said snarkily, "but if I could beseech a moment of your time . . ."

Some of the pilots laughed a little, and Valentine forced herself to smile. "Aye, sir," she said.

"Glad to see you're on top of it today, Bugs," the CAG said smiling slightly. "As I was saying though, you're up for shuttle duty ops today. Sorry. Good luck with those pampered brass karks."

Valentine nodded. "Aye, sir," she said. There was little more degrading for a combat pilot than to be stuck behind the controls of an ungainly, lumbering shuttle. But, in an odd way, she found herself looking forward to the time alone in between trips.

The CAG continued: "Flatpan will cover for Bugs in the CAP." At the mention of the combat air patrol, the room of pilots collectively groaned. The CAG held up his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, it sucks," he said. "Tough dredioj. The Base Commander says we're up next on the rotation, and that's that.

"Lieutenant Qydo says he'll have the birds ready to go in an hour, so let's hit the head, and get ready. Dismissed."

* * *

**_Dac Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Shuttling Dac dignitaries around was a skraggy assignment. The Dac—Mon Calamari, Quarren, and even a few Humans—were, on a whole, good people, but their Royal Guard was short on practical know-how, and not lacking arrogance, making shuttling any of their officers around a hellish experience.

Most of the senior Royal officers didn't really care about her—she was just a pilot, after all—but many of the junior ones spoke to her like she was somehow responsible for all of the Alliance's strategic actions. It was beyond annoying to listen to the puffed-up lieutenant commanders berate her for things far outside of her control. She really couldn't disagree with her commander's estimation of the Dac officers as 'Pampered brass karks.' Not all of them, of course. Some—like Rear Admiral Gial Ackbar, though he was technically not a member of the Royal Guard any more—actually knew something.

But she'd just dropped off a load of snotty midshipmen at one the many the low orbit mooryards, and—for the time being—had the shuttle to herself. The silence was a blessed relief. There was no one to have to pretend to be confident and cocky in front of, and she could linger over her brother's death more freely.

She wondered if her mother knew about her only son's death. With a sudden flurry of emotion, she realized she had to be the one to tell her mother—she doubted the Alliance Army even knew where Zeno had been from.

"_This is Flight Control actual, Bugs,"_ a voice on the comm system squawked, breaking into her reverie.

"Go ahead, Flight Con actual," she said, keying her mic.

"_There's a long-range non-atmo shuttle coming in from the Fleet. Bigwig aboard."_

Valentine sighed. "Where and when?"

"_Glad to hear you're so interested, Bugs,"_ the voice said humorously.

"Go kark yourself—you don't have to deal with the passengers," Valentine responded.

There was a laugh; at least the owner of the voice had a sense of humor. "_Shuttle will rendezvous at Lagrange Point Three in one-six minutes. Drop him off at Imprimis."_ There was a moment of staticky silence, and a little amused chuckle came over the channel. "_Try not to kill him—he really is a bigwig."_

"No promises."

* * *

The scraping noise of the docking clamps made Valentine flinch, but then the noise was replaced a moment later by the solid _clang_ that echoed throughout the shuttle. The pressures of the two shuttles equalized, and the airlocks were opened.

Valentine turned in her seat to get a look at the figure who drifted through the airlocks, and she gasped silently in surprise as she noticed the beige-gray of an Imperial uniform on the man. She had frozen in surprise, and she hardly noticed the silver pips that—despite the color of his uniform—marked the man as an Alliance Navy commander. He turned, and closed the airlock behind him.

The man glanced at her, an eyebrow moving upward slightly, as he saw the feminine shape of her cheekbones. "Lieutenant," he said, quickly discerning her rank from the colored patterns that had been painted onto her helmet.

Valentine realized she had been staring, and forced herself to turn her attention to the controls of the shuttle. "Welcome aboard, sir," she said without looking at him.

"Thank you." The man drifted through the tight confines of the shuttle, finally coming to the cockpit, where he strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat. "Let's get underway, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir."

With the airlock closed, Valentine detached the docking clamps that had held them together with the long-range, non-atmospheric shuttle. She used the RCS thrusters to maneuver her shuttle to a safe distance, then lit off the main engines. A little acceleration bled through the compensators, before it eased off a bit to more tolerable levels.

The Alliance officer wearing the Imperial uniform glanced at her and said, "Fighter jock?"

His question surprised her, but she nodded. "Aye, sir." She was silent for a moment. "How could you tell?" she asked, after another moment. Most female pilots had been refused combat roles by the Navy.

"No internal gravity," the officer said. A slight smile appeared on his scarred features. "That, and you have '597th VFA' painted on your helmet—sort of gives it away."

She laughed a little. The sight of a man in an Imperial uniform sitting beside her was . . . unnerving. She half expected him to shout, 'Die, Rebel!' and draw his service pistol.

His countenance didn't help calm whatever unease she felt. There was one, long scar that ran down the side of his face, from above his ear down to the hinge of his jaw, and it gave him a disfigured look. There were other scars on his face, some small, some less so. The collar of his uniform was buttoned high, but she could see where one scar ran down the side of his neck, and disappeared under the beige-gray fabric.

He seemed to notice her unease, since he smiled again. He didn't say anything though, he just continued to smile his little smile. His sapphire eyes seemed unaffected by what his lips were doing, however, and they stayed cool and detached.

"Flight Con, this is Bugs actual. I've got the bigwig, and I'm coming back to the barn," she said into her headset's pickup.

"_Copy, Bugs," _a voice said over her headset. _"__Handing you off to landing control officer."_

There was a brief, quiet laugh from beside her, and she turned to look at the officer. He was smiling slightly again. "Lieutenant, I have been called many things—most of them too crude to be mentioned in the presence of a lady—but never 'bigwig.' " He laughed lightly again.

It was amazing what the laughter did to his scarred face. It didn't make him handsome, but it made him . . . not unpleasant to look at. Strangely enough, Valentine found herself laughing along with the officer. For the first time in two weeks, it didn't have to be forced. "You must be from the Core, sir," she said.

"Oh? How did you gather that?"

"No other man would have called me a _lady_." She laughed again.


	22. Chapter Sixteen—William Sheplin

**WILLIAM SHEPLIN**

"We forced the Empire off our world once. They fought with blasters and fighters, destroying cities at will. We fought with whatever we had—kitchen utensils, industrial tools . . . our bare hands."

—Fleet Admiral Gial Ackbar, NRN, Retired

* * *

**_Dac, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Imprimis Base was large than any non-Imperial ground complex Sheplin had ever seen. Dorn Base, the former Sith Empire fortress that the Alliance had resurrected on the frozen world of Hoth, paled in comparison to the size of the Dac-built base.

It sprawled out in every direction for more than five kilometers, and Sheplin's detail-oriented mind automatically worked to estimate how many lived and served within the enormous complex. There wasn't enough information for an accurate answer, but Sheplin supposed that there could be over fifty-thousand, if the Dac had them packed in tight enough.

Most of the residents of Imprimis Base were Dacs—Mon Calamari, Quarren, and Humans, since all three species considered themselves 'Dacs,' Sheplin had discovered—but nearly five-thousand of the residents were Alliance personnel. Most of them were contractors, working with the local Dac shipwrights, but quite a few were Navy pilots, and there were a smattering of Marines to act as guards as well.

Sheplin got his first view of the base when the pilot—Bugs had been her callsign, if he recalled correctly—had taken the shuttle he'd been riding in for a landing on one of Imprimis Base's many landing pads. Now, he got to see it from the air again, as an airspeeder took him to the capital.

The pilot of the speeder wasn't Bugs, which was probably just a well. Her reaction to his scars and uniform was hardly unique to her, but it had never gotten any easier to be looked at as if he were a monster from a cheap horror holovid. His current pilot was a Mon Calamari midshipman, and he hadn't even seemed to notice the scars on Sheplin's face.

The capital was a beautiful feat of engineering. The thin pylons that supported the base of the capital seemed far too thin to handle the crushing weight of an entire city, and Sheplin guessed that it was mostly repulsorlifts and other forms of anti-gravity that kept the city from plunging into the depths of the ocean.

The city was a recent accomplishment, having been built only after the local populations had united to drive the Empire from their world. Prior to the Empire, the world had been divided, with the Quarren residing in the oceans, while the Mon Calamari—though amphibians—kept to the surface, and the Humans resided on the wispy islands that dotted the planet.

For nearly five thousand years, the Quarrens and Mon Calamari had been at each others' throats, while the Humans allied themselves with one party or the other. It had taken a full-scale Imperial invasion to force them to put aside their differences. That they had managed to drive the Empire from the surface of their world, and remain independent under the new Royal Triumvirate for so many years showed just how truly formidable these people were.

"We'll be coming in for a landing in a few minutes, sir," the Mon Calamari midshipman said.

"Very well," Sheplin answered.

* * *

The Dac Royal Cabinet watched Sheplin enter the cabinet room with guarded expressions. They were—aside from the three monarchs they advised—the most powerful beings on the planet.

"Commander William Sheplin," the sergeant-at-arms, a Royal Guardsman, announced, holding the door open for him.

None of the members of the cabinet stood, and, instead, Aliana Magiware, the prime minister, gestured to a vacant seat at the end of the table they sat at. Her expression was hard to read, being a Quarren, but Sheplin could gather that she hadn't been in favor of this audience from the way her eyes studied him coolly.

"Gentles," Sheplin said in greeting. His wounds were throbbing from the walk to the cabinet room, but he masked the pain from his expression. He folded his hands together behind his back.

Aliana continued boring holes in him with her eyes. "We have agreed to this meeting as a courtesy to the Alliance to Restore the Republic. Nothing more," she said curtly.

Sheplin nodded. That the Dac weren't particularly happy with the Alliance's recent activities was common knowledge. _Well,_ Sheplin thought, _they'll probably be more than a little cetted off about _this_ too._

He forced himself to smile through the throbbing pain. "Small courtesies make the galaxy go around," he said.

"What does Thrawn want?" Aliana demanded. She had been the only one to speak thus far, and the rest of the cabinet seemed inclined to let their prime minister do most of the verbal sparring with the scarred pseudo-ambassador Thrawn had sent.

Sheplin had read all he could about Prime Minister Aliana Magiware, and was almost certain the woman appreciated plain-spoken honesty more than almost anything. "It's what we want to do for _you_, Prime Minister," he said finally, choosing his words with care. He smiled again, though this time it was far thinner.

"Go on."

"We have reliable sources—" a lie, of course, but he rather doubted Aliana would believe him if he didn't say he had sources, and instead only 'sound suspicions' "—that indicate the Empire is on it's way to the Outer Rim even as we speak."

There was utter silence. Several of the cabinet members glanced at each other, worriedly. "You have proof, you said?" Aliana demanded.

"I do," Sheplin said. "Though I have been instructed to not show military intelligence to civilians—we are still restructuring our intelligence organizations, and have found that quite a lot of information is . . . leaked, Prime Minister. I'm afraid you must take me on faith."

Aliana ground her teeth. "Faith is earned, Commander, and your Admiral Thrawn has not earned it with _us_."

Sheplin shrugged. "Fair enough, Prime Minister. However, we don't truly need your help."

Aliana snorted. "Is that a fact?" she asked, mimicking Sheplin's soft Core Worlds drawl with her alien vocal cords. "Well, you _do_ need our help, Commander. Your Thrawn isn't worth skrag without men and materiel to back him up. In case you hadn't noticed; we provide most of your men and materiel."

Sheplin smiled and laughed slightly. His response made Aliana's black blood color her face in anger. "I'm afraid you misunderstood me, Prime Minister," he said. "We don't need your help with the _battle_—the war is an entirely different matter."

"Battle?"

"Yes, the one that's coming . . ." Sheplin looked thoughtful, "within a week." He smiled yet again. "Here, to be exact. Though . . . the invasion force may take a quick detour through the shipyards, just for the hell of it; after all, if you have a thousand star destroyers, you can afford to be a little more widespread with your chaos."

The cabinet's combined expressions blanched at the number of star destroyers he'd so casually mentioned. "I'd not recommend you keep the Royal Guard's vessel's in orbit to meet them," Sheplin said. "They would be slightly outnumbered, I believe. If you do insist on foolishness, I would strongly recommend transferring overall command of them to the Alliance."

"Madam Minister . . ." one of the cabinet members said tentatively. Aliana turned her gaze to the speaker, who swallowed before continuing. "I understand the citizenry's distrust of the Alliance . . . especially since Thrawn came in." He cast a glance at Sheplin. "But _what if he's telling us the truth_? We're facing the largest invasion in the history of Dac—hell, it'll make the _first_ one look like—" He sputtered, failing to find the proper example. "Surely, we should at least call out the Guard!"

Aliana snorted. "But didn't you hear the Commander?" she asked mockingly. "He 'doesn't need our help.' "

"No," Commander Sheplin said. "We don't _need_ your help; though we would not turn away the help or the friendship of the Dac." He spread his hands out. "That's one of the reasons I am here; to help the Dac."

"Friendship is earned, Commander," Aliana said.

"Yet you were—until recently—friends to the Alliance," Sheplin said. He smiled again. "You even 'donated' a sizable portion of the ships currently serving in the Navy. I would like to know what changed."

Aliana snorted. " 'What changed?' " she asked. "What changed is everything. The Alliance had been dedicated to restoring the Republic."

"It still is."

"And yet your Admiral has dissolved the one body that was most dedicated to the ideals of the Republic; your Command Council." Aliana's tone was barely civil. "I should not need to tell you that, by doing so, he has also dissolved whatever trust the Dac people had in the Alliance."

"Not all Dac, I would say."

Aliana looked pained for an instant, before she forced her features to return to normal. "Yes, not all," she admitted. "I can only assume you are referring to Ackbar. His actions are . . . troubling, to this cabinet."

"No doubt," Sheplin agreed wryly, not failing to notice her momentary expression of pain. "There _will_ be a New Republic, madam," he said firmly.

"An empty promise, Commander," Aliana said. "We have nothing but your word."

"You had nothing more than the word of the Council, before." A reply from her was not quick in coming, and the two took a moment to survey the other. Sheplin's smile grew slightly more sincere. "There's a committee being set up," he said. "To write a constitution."

Aliana's gaze was skeptical. "For the Alliance?" she asked.

"For the New Republic."

A few members of the cabinet exchanged glances. Aliana shook her head slowly. "It will be years before there's a New Republic, and you are not going to buy our friendship so easily."

Sheplin raised his eyebrows. "If by 'buying our friendship' you mean saving your people from slavery and genocide, then you're wrong. Your people have long memories: They still remember the time the Republic came to save them in the Clone Wars, and they will remember this for just as long."

Sheplin stood up. "I will be at Imprimis Base, if you decide you want to help us help you." He looked at the sole other member of the cabinet who had spoken for a moment. "Take this to the Triumvirate," he said. "Hear their wisdom."

With one last, slight smile, he turned from them, and walked away.

* * *

Colonel Sanderson was sitting in his office, when Sheplin entered the room. Sheplin saluted, as Sanderson's Army rank made him the equivalent of a Navy captain. "Sir," Sheplin said. "I apologize for not reporting directly, earlier. My orders took me elsewhere."

Sanderson waved away the apology. "Don't apologize. I got a communiqué from General Trantor ordering me to cooperate with you, and," he grinned momentarily, surprising Sheplin, "even take orders from you; in the orbital and air portions of the battle, at least."

"Oh," Sheplin said. "I'm . . . glad you're not . . . cetted off, sir."

Sanderson laughed. He looked like he was in his fifties, but he was probably younger. He had big, bushy eyebrows, and a broad, plain-looking face. "I'll be cetted off later, Commander. Right now I'm skragging my pants."

Sheplin smiled a little, laughing silently along with Sanderson. "That makes two of us, sir."

"The Royal Cabinet seems to thing that you're ready to take the Empire on with a water pistol . . . with one hand strapped behind your back for good measure," Sanderson commented. When Sheplin raised an eyebrow, the Army colonel waved his hand. "I have my sources. I hope you were just bluffing."

"I was."

"I'm not actually sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

Sheplin nodded. "This communiqué must have mentioned the Admiral's plan . . . in broad strokes at least, sir," Sheplin guessed, having noted that Sanderson had mentioned the coming battle.

"Why do you think I'm skragging myself?"


	23. Chapter Seventeen—Mitth'raw'nuruodo

**MITTH'RAW'NURUODO**

Three qualities make a man a leader:

The strength of his brother,  
the love of another,  
and the will of the Maker.

—Ancient Jedi proverb  
attributed to Revan

* * *

** _Deep Space, Mid Rim, 0 ABY_**

In the dark void between stars, the Second Fleet of the Empire of the Hand and the Alliance Navy rendezvoused.

Admiral Thrawn stood on the starboard hangar deck of the _Knight_, waiting patiently for the interfleet shuttle launched from the flagship of the Second Fleet, _Redeemed_, an _Ascendancy_-class star destroyer, to arrive. Rear Admiral Gial Ackbar stood beside him, his large amphibian eyes watching the open mouth of the hangar intently.

Senator Mon Mothma and a cadre of advisers—mostly there for show, Thrawn knew, since she was anything but a fluttery woman who needed advisers to make a decision—stood waiting as well. The Opposition had been putting considerable pressure on her to keep a firm grip on Thrawn's leash, and he knew that she was here mostly to look as if she were the one in charge. The thought amused Thrawn.

Marines and spacers were standing at attention as a sleek, dark-painted shuttle slipped into the hangar. The transparisteel canopy of it was seemingly opaque, keeping Thrawn from being able to see inside, though he knew from experience that it was transparent from the inside looking out.

It landed softly, the weight of the shuttle settling on four landing struts that detached from the underside. As the hatch opened, a half-dozen bosuns brought their calls to their lips, filling the hangar with the ear-shattering sound of their whistles.

A woman in a Hand uniform stepped out. Her eyes surveyed the assembled Marines and spacers, her expression carefully neutral. Thrawn recognized her instantly, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

The woman turned to the _Knight_'s flag captain, Michael Baldor, and said, "Permission to come aboard, Captain?"

"Granted, Admiral," Baldor said, saluting.

The woman nodded, returning the flag captain's salute. She turned to Thrawn, saluting again.

"Admiral," Thrawn said in greeting to Admiral Sarria Thek, responding in kind to her sharp salute.

"Vun'ur-Vun'bovah," Thek responded respectfully in the Chiss fashion. "Captain Parck sends his apologies—he was not able to come in person, as he was . . . otherwise engaged."

Thrawn nodded a little. "Understandable," he said. "What is your force strength, Admiral?" he questioned a moment later. The sensor suite aboard the _Knight_ had identified the majority of the ships of the Second Fleet, but quite a few of the emissions profiles didn't match anything in either Imperial or Alliance databases, and he wasn't quite skilled enough to take raw emissions data and match it to ship profiles from memory.

"Forty _Imperial_-class, eighteen _Ascendancy_-class, and seven _Syndic_-class, Vun'ur-Vun'bovah," Thek said. She had pulled out a touchpad, to give an accurate rundown of her fleet. "Standard support vessels—one-hundred and six _Asdroni_-class corvettes, fifty-six _Kariek_-class light cruisers, thirty _Lancer_-class frigates, ten _Massias_-class interdictors, and four _Au'riette_-class carriers. Captain Parck also detached four VELCs, sir." She seemed unsurprised that Thrawn had opted to ask about her force's disposition before she'd been more than two minutes aboard his flagship.

Thek slipped the touchpad back into a pocket, and ignored the outright shocked look on the faces of Mothma's advisers—Thek's force was three times larger than the entire Alliance Fleet. Mothma herself was doing a better job of containing her surprise at the number of vessels, but Thrawn could still see it was there. He hadn't told her just how many vessels he'd expected Parck to send him; he hadn't known for certain how many ships his second-in-command could afford to send.

"That's quite an armada, Admiral . . ." Mothma said, inviting the Hand admiral to give her name.

Thek looked at Mothma with cold eyes. "Thek," she said simply, before turning back to Thrawn. She wasn't happy about Thrawn's pact with the Alliance, that much was plain. Still, Thrawn knew that Thek would carry out his commands.

Mothma looked slightly surprised at the blunt snub, but didn't say anything, though she did shift on her feet slightly. The long dress she wore masked the uneasy movement from unobservant eyes, Thrawn noted.

Thek's eyes turned to Ackbar, who'd been watching her curiously. "Rear Admiral Ackbar, sir," he said by way of introduction. He didn't salute—he wasn't certain he should, given their differences in allegiance—but instead offered his hand.

The Hand admiral took it without hesitation, further snubbing Mothma with her easy acceptance of the Dac officer. Mothma kept her face blank, as she turned to Thrawn to say, "I have business that requires my attention, Admiral."

"Of course, Senator," Thrawn said, none of the slight amusement he felt showing. She was wise to withdraw, he thought, before Thek had another opportunity to be graceless to her, and give the Opposition further reason to put pressure on her. He would have to have a talk with Thek about respecting the Alliance's chain of command.

Nodding deferentially, he saluted the Senator, before she turned away.

"You commanded the attack on Shuldene," Thek said, eyeing Ackbar, and seemingly oblivious to Mothma's withdrawal. "That was a nice bit of action."

Ackbar nodded gruffly. "Just a small part in the war, Admiral," he said. It didn't even occur to anyone in the hangar that Ackbar was being falsely modest—he probably didn't truly think of his action as anything more than a 'small part in the war.'

"You attacked a numerically superior foe—simply as a diversion, I grant—and destroyed four battlecruisers, and the entire Shuldene fleetyard complex, while taking only light losses. I find that to be a _very_ nice bit of action."

Ackbar—obviously somewhat embarrassed—nodded once.

Thek turned to Thrawn. Straightening herself, she looked at her commander. "Vun'ur-Vun'bovah," she said formally. "My forces await your command."

* * *

"You brought VELCs, you said?" Thrawn asked Thek, the two of them sitting in his office alone.

The Variable Emission Light Craft was one of the Empire of the Hand's many innovative solutions to their relatively low number of capital warships. One of the VELCs, roughly the size of a light cruiser, could put out enough emissions to make them look like a small battlegroup. Such a warship would likely have never been built by the orders of the Imperial Starfleet, but the doctrines of the Hand's Navy were far more sophisticated than their Imperial cousins, and had enthusiastically encouraged the development of such innovative warships.

"I did, Vun'ur-Vun'bovah," Thek responded.

Thrawn smiled a little. "No one is listening, Admiral. You don't have to be so formal."

The Hand Admiral nodded. "Aye, sir."

Thrawn just nodded, staying silent for a moment. He tapped his desk lightly as he studied the woman sitting across from him. She was in her fifties, and her graying hair had been trimmed short in accordance with regulations, even though the Hand's Navy allowed women to wear their hair longer than the Imperial Starfleet. Her face was blunt, but, had she smiled, Thrawn would have seen traces of the beautiful young commander he'd met years ago.

"Communications will be difficult," Thrawn said, jumping right into the matter. "Hypercomms are unreliable, and the HoloNet is off-limits for the time being."

"Comm silence is nothing new, Admiral."

"No," Thrawn agreed. "But it was always our choice in the past—now, it's not." He ceased his rhythmic tapping of the desk, and lit up a holo-emitter. A detailed map of the galaxy appeared between them.

Thrawn traced his finger around the Core Worlds. "The Empire is the most immediate threat to us, and we must deal with them before we can turn our attention to the Far Outsiders." His finger paused, and pointed at Imperial Center. "The Emperor is the head of the monster, but I have my doubts that simply killing him would be enough. The bureaucratic machine he created could lumber on for years without him, perhaps even decades."

"They have to surrender willingly. Simply killing the Emperor would not be enough," she agreed, though distaste was clear in her tone as she spoke of regicide. Even though Palpatine had betrayed them both—and the entire population of the galaxy, for that matter—he was still the man she'd sworn a sacred oath to.

"Agreed," Thrawn said. "If we had enough time, a well-organized, subtle propaganda campaign would go a long way in forcing them to capitulate, but that could take years." He rubbed his temple. "A more blatant propaganda push would be faster, but less likely to succeed. The Emperor could kill any blatant push in the cradle—he has a powerful cult of personality, I'm afraid."

"Then, respectfully, Admiral, taking that along with our lack of capital ships, I believe we're karked." Even as she spoke, Thrawn noted a slightly excited, almost girlish light in her eyes that gave her words more humor than he'd expected from her.

Thrawn raised an eyebrow and snorted lightly at her crude verb. "We can not defeat them in the short-term, but I believe we can at least neutralize them, for the time being."

He moved his hand toward the holographic representation of the Outer Rim. "There should be a strong Imperial force—eight-thousand vessels, or so—operating in the Rim, by now. Commanded by Grand Admiral Grant, if our sources are correct."

"What is his goal?"

"Me," Thrawn said, smiling slightly. "He has been ordered to kill or capture me. Not to destroy the Alliance, but to kill _me_—that tells you a bit about the Emperor's priorities. He's been ordered to succeed within six months, as well, and I would assume the Emperor will remove his head and replace him with someone else if he doesn't."

"Then that's our chance," Thek said. "If we can pin Grant down, we can destroy him." There was nothing in her expression that seemed even slightly perturbed that Grant's force was fifty times larger than hers, and Thrawn narrowed his eyes slightly, immediately tying the excitement he'd seen in her eyes with her confidence. "It'd be a drop in the ocean of the total Imperial Starfleet, but it would be a very sizable chunk of their _effective_ force."

"We believe Grant is making a push to Dac, even as we speak," Thrawn said. "And we will meet his forces there . . . I don' believe we'll be doing very much pinning down—likely the opposite."

Thek looked at the star cluster around the Dac system, the hidden excitement dimming slightly. "The Dac are going to get hurt then. Badly," she said. "Nothing's going to stop Grant from just glassing the planet, once they're in orbit."

"I believe you'll find Octavian Grant doesn't enjoy genocide," Thrawn responded. "And I doubt he'll have been directed to exterminate the Dac people—that would pose problems to pacifying the Rim; many of the major star systems follow the lead of Dac, and would likely declare open rebellion if the jewel of the Rim was slagged."

"I see you don't agree with Tarkin's policy of blowing up a planet to cow their neighbors," Thek said dryly—Tarkin's 'New Navy' policies had never been favored by career officers.

"As the late Grand Moff discovered, a second before a farmboy sent him to Hell: It doesn't work." Thrawn refocused the holo-emitter on the Mid Rim. "Once Grant is out of the equation, my force will be free to enter the Mid Rim and play hell with the Imperial defenders, while yours begins establishing a proper presence throughout the Outer Rim," Thrawn added, moving his hand toward the holographic representation of the Mid Rim.

Thek made a sour face. "I don't believe I'll enjoy conquering planets in the name of the Alliance."

"Then don't," Thrawn said simply. " 'Liberate' them in the Hand's name—we can always decide who gets what, after the war."

Thek looked surprised. "The Alliance will never accept that. Let alone that ciken Mothma."

"Whatever she is, she's not a ciken," Thrawn said. He paused, before deciding that his . . . _advice_ to be more friendly to the Alliance's leadership could wait until later. "And they _will_ accept it, Admiral; they will have no choice. Not while you have sixty-five star destroyers, and they have . . . slightly less."

"True," Thek granted. "It'll be another war in the making though." She laughed without humor. "Providing we win this one and the next, of course."

"War has been part of the universe since Creation; I don't think it will ever go away." Thrawn moved his hand to the Core Worlds, passing through the Expansion Region, the Inner Rim, and the Colonies on his way. "If we avoid the hyperlanes, we should be able to cut a straight line to Imperial Center. Taking the planet won't win the war, but it will shock their civilians, and put the Empire on the defensive. Hopefully, that will give us the time to deal with the Far Outsiders. Hopefully."

Thek stared at him. " 'Avoid the hyperlanes'?" she repeated. "That'll take you years, Admiral." Memories from her two-week journey from Nirauan to Namadii were still fresh in her mind. In two weeks she'd traveled a hundred lightyears. What Thrawn was planning would require him to go thousands of lightyears through a far, far more dangerous—as far as uncharted celestial objects were concerned—portion of the galaxy.

"You would have to scout _every_ jump," she went on, "and there's so much debris in the Core. . . ."

Thrawn smiled thinly. "I have my ways," he said simply.

Thek just rocked her head to the side, before saying, "Aye, sir."

The comlink built into Thrawn's desk chimed, and he depressed a stud to answer it. "Go ahead," he said.

"_My apologies for the interruption, Admiral,"_ a mechanical voice said. It belonged to TC-32, one of the protocol droids that had been assigned to help him with an ever-increasing pile of flimsi-work. _"There has been a priority hypercomm from Dac, sir, and I believe you have instructed me to put any such calls through, regardless of circumstance."_

"Put it through."

The holographic representation of the galaxy was replaced by a familiar figure. _"Admiral,"_ the holographic rendition of William Sheplin said in greeting. _"Just so you know, this is prerecorded; so don't go and answer me."_ The tall man smiled humorously, his scars flattening out slightly from the action. _"My end is coming along nicely, sir. I don't know what kind of strings you pulled, but Colonel Sanderson has been decidedly helpful._

"_We've got fourteen mobile ion batteries deployed around Imprimis Base, along with three-dozen MACs—though if Grant gets close enough that we have to use them, we will be really karked._

"_I'm organizing the Base's strike-craft compliment into two strike groups, and we should give Grant a very, very bloody nose with the strike groups and the orbital defenses. Still, I wouldn't stop for caf if I were you—the faster you get here, the better." _Sheplin's scarred face lost its smile.

"_It's going to be some ugly skrag, sir. I don't think we'll hold for more than a day, if it comes to it . . . and that's assuming that Grant doesn't decide to just glass us from the edge of the system . . ." _he trailed off. _"On that cheerful note; good luck with your end, sir."_

"I see your aide is as optimistic as ever," Thek said dryly.

"Always," Thrawn answered. He glanced shrewdly at the Hand Admiral. "Speaking of optimism, I believe you have something important to show me, judging from the way you've been hiding your smiles."

Thek had served with Thrawn long enough to know that he could practically read the minds of his subordinates, and she grinned slightly. She slipped her hand into her uniform coat, finding her touchpad. "Well, Admiral, I _do_ have something to show you." She activated the screen. "We call it a 'Hudson Box.' "


	24. Chapter Eighteen—Mara Jade

**MARA JADE**

No man can stand without another, but the strongest man stands alone.

—Ancient Sith proverb  
attributed to Revan

* * *

**_Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Mara Jade, Hand of the Emperor, sat in Grand Admiral Grant's quarters, quietly reading his log. Not the official journal that would have to be turned over to Imperial Center, once the campaign was concluded. No, she was reading his personal one—the one he'd hidden inside a painting of His Grace, the Emperor.

It wasn't very encouraging.

The personal journal dated back to his early years in the Navy, but she had skipped past the first quarter, in search of his time with Thrawn.

* * *

_Never have I met an alien so damnably pompous as this 'Admiral' Thrawn. The New Order was established by Humans for Humans, not for upjumped aliens!_

_I don't understand how the Navy could have become so infected with xeno sympathizers that this Thrawn could have been commissioned—let alone reach flag rank!_

* * *

Jade skipped forward two pages, to the day after the First Battle of Tor.

* * *

_I have been forced to . . . reconsider Admiral Thrawn. He is, and always will be, an alien—but I now believe he must be descended from a Human. He _must_!_

_He is pompous, true, and smug, but, unlike so many lesser species I have had the ill-fortune to encounter, he is . . . intelligent. Not as inherently intelligent as a Human, of course, but he sees things in a different way I suspect. A way that makes him seem intelligent._

_But, appearances of intelligence or not, he is the most effective combat commander I have ever seen._

_This battle with the Torians was beyond anything I've witnessed. It was like . . . clockwork majesty. It exceeds words what Thrawn was able to accomplish with a pair of task groups. Every move the Torians made, he was prepared for._

_He seems to understand the key concepts of Humanocentristic teachings as well. At least, he certainly subscribes to the theories of certain races being more or less advantaged than others._

_How he was able to realize it, I haven't a clue, but he was able to discern that the Torian race's herd mentalities extend to naval warfare. Whenever we engaged elements of the Tor Defense Fleet, Thrawn purposefully withdrew elements being assaulted by certain war captains, drawing Torian ships to the war captains that were enjoying such dramatic success._

_Of course, they only _appeared_ to be enjoying success._

_Once the majority of the Defense Fleet coalesced behind a handful of war captains, Thrawn struck. Simultaneously destroying the war captains' ships, he launched a series of attacks on the rest of the Defense Fleet 'herd,' panicking the surviving members in the direction he wanted them to go. It appeared as if they were fleeing into open deep space . . . until I and my task force dropped out of hyper—practically on top of them._

_I have no stomach for slaughter, not even of xenos, but that was precisely what it was._

_I wonder, and fear, what a man—and he _is_ a man, if not a Human—such as that could do against a force of Humans. . . ._

* * *

The hatch clanged as it was opened, and Grand Admiral Octavian Grant stepped into his quarters. He was reaching up to undo his collar button, when he saw Mara sitting in his chair, reading his private, hidden journal.

Mara watched his expression, and quietly admired how he quickly composed any anger or fear from his features. He gestured at his journal, still in her hands. "What did you think?" he asked coolly.

"I think you are an interesting man," she answered, equally coolly.

"Oh, is that why you broke into my quarters? To see what kind of man I am?" Grant snorted. "Obviously you did," he answered for her.

She smiled. "We're four days out of Dac—"

"Three," he corrected.

"—so I thought now might be the only chance we have to coordinate our efforts."

Grant sat down on one of the other chairs in his quarters. He continued to unbutton his uniform coat. "You said you needed a Rebel ship, when you came aboard, and you'll have it." He gestured downward, through the deck plating, toward the hangar. "Take your pick."

"I have," Mara replied simply. "What I need _now_ is to know your plans, Grand Admiral, so that I can work with you."

Grant snorted. " 'My Plans'? My plan—singular—is to knock on Dac's door, and hope I have enough ships to weather whatever trap Thrawn is doubtlessly setting for me." He slipped his jacket off, wearing only an undershirt.

"Such an elegant strategy."

"Given the _far_ more rational strategies that I recommended have been dismissed by our Emperor as being 'too slow,' it's the only one left to me. The only one that has even the remote possibility of success."

"Every man has a weakness to be exploited."

Grant laughed bitterly. "Thrawn has two weaknesses." He held up one finger. "The first is the most obvious; his people. He'd die a thousand deaths before he'd stand back and let his people be destroyed. Unfortunately, he's in between us and his homeworld. Equally unfortunately, we aren't quite sure where the hell his homeworld is in the Unknown Regions."

He held up a second finger. "The only other weakness, that I know of, is a puzzle. He's a calculating, rational man, and if he finds something that doesn't make sense, he'll upend the galaxy trying to figure it out and extract some military usefulness from it."

Mara shrugged. "But you aren't giving him a puzzle," she said.

Grant shook his head. "Oh, but I am, actually," he corrected her. "How to destroy a force the outnumbers him by seventy-to-one is a damn good puzzle."

Mara shrugged again, thinking about her own mission. "Will he be on Dac?" she asked.

Grant said, "No. He doesn't like tying himself down to one position. He'll be in space, where he can maneuver."

"He was on the surface of Hoth," Mara said.

"Special circumstances," Grant said dismissively.

"But _someone_ has to be on Dac. If he's setting a trap, someone has to be there to spring it."

"Sheplin, probably."

"Who?"

"Commander William J. Sheplin," Grant said, enunciating every word precisely. "Thrawn's aide and confidant for fifteen years. He was reported KIA—he was on the Death Star, after all—but an ISB operative spotted him on Hoth with Thrawn."

Mara's eyes widened ever so slightly. "On the Death Star? Did he—"

"Most likely." He snorted. "Certainly more believable than that farmboy one-shotting the most expensive weapons platform ever built in a _strike-fighter_." Even as he spoke, Mara could almost hear him pausing to censor any less than complimentary comments about the ill-fated Death Star. The survival instincts of an officer who spent any amount of time in the Imperial Court were very well-adjusted.

Mara blinked. The beginnings of an idea entered her mind, as pieces began sliding into place. "An aide for fifteen years?" she asked, ignoring his comment about the Skywalker boy and the Death Star.

"Yes."

"They must be very close," Mara said, more pieces sliding into place, slowly forming a picture of the two men.

Grant looked at her, slightly surprised that she had figured that out from so few clues. "Sheplin is . . ." he shrugged, searching for the right word, "like Thrawn's surrogate son, from what I could gather. Just like any protégé of Thrawn's, he's a very, very capable man."

Mara was smiling openly, the words he said registering for later reflection, but without really hearing them. "You're wrong about Thrawn, Grand Admiral," she said. "He might have those two weaknesses, but there's one that every man shares: Family."

* * *

Mara jumped into hyperspace, sitting in the cockpit of the _Arcadia_, a little, dingy YT-1000 series freighter. The entire Fourth Oversector Group had made the stop, allowing her to slip out of the hangar of the _Sword of Anaxes _in realspace, instead of hyperspace.

Her dark cloak—one of the signature possessions of a Hand of the Emperor—had been left aboard the Imperial dreadnought. Instead, she now wore a baggy flight suit in the pattern that the Alliance seemed to favor. A name had been sewn onto her breast pocket, beside a sewn-on emblem of an Alliance phoenix; 'L. Taggert.'

Everything that could potentially give her away during this mission had been painstakingly removed from her person. Leaving her precious lightsaber behind had been hard, and she felt almost naked without the cold, deadly weight of it on her belt.

But it wasn't a lightsaber that made her lethal to the Emperor's enemies, nor even the Force, it was _him_. Even half a galaxy away from him, she could feel the weight of his spirit pushing her on. It was inconceivable to deny that will, and, for a moment, she wondered how some—like Thrawn—could even think to do so.

* * *

**_Dac Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

"_Unidentified contact, make your heading_ _zero-eight-one, mark three-one-nine. Do not deviate course. State your business in the system."_

Mara smiled thinly at the businesslike voice. She keyed her headset's mic, deliberately pitching her voice so that is was high and panicky. "This is the light freighter _Arcadia_, Lieutenant Taggert commanding. I have been attacked by Imperial forces in deep space. Requesting immediate landing authorization."


	25. Chapter Nineteen—Luke Skywalker

**LUKE SKYWALKER**

Prophecy is a dangerous thing; it rarely is as it seems.

—Ancient Je'daii proverb  
attributed to an unknown warrior of the Force Wars

* * *

**_Deep Space, Mid Rim, 0 ABY_**

"_Standby for hyperspace translation,"_ Wedge said.

Luke took a deep breath, forcing his numb limbs to move a little. Circulation was almost non-existent, and he felt like he had to skrag. In the tight confines of a one-man cockpit, that was no small feat. But he repressed the need, knowing that he didn't have the time.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, there was a flicker of a will not his own in his mind, gently pushing him.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, opening himself up to the will he felt, just as he'd done before. He felt the cool, rushing power of the Force swirling around and through him. Peace washed through him, and he could feel the searing power from the engines like they had sprouted from his body. He could feel the currents of electricity flowing through the instruments and could feel the coiled power of the plasma cannons. It was like making his ship a part of him.

Beyond the thin hull of his ship, he could feel the lights of eleven souls flying in formation beside him through hyperspace. He could feel the power in their ships, but it was like viewing lights through a warped pane of glass; they were there, but he couldn't make them out clearly.

He felt the ship drop out of hyperspace before it actually happened. It was like reaching to catch a ball that hadn't left the thrower's hand yet. As he opened his eyes, he saw the streaks of hyperspace collapse into points of starlight.

"_This is it. Go to combat acceleration and follow me in," _Wedge ordered.

Luke gave a perfunctory acknowledgment, and moved the throttle column forward to maximum combat acceleration. The soft vibrations from the engines turned into a discernible tremor.

Ahead of the Squadron, a space station hung suspended among the void, just barely a thousand kilometers out. Already, alert fighters were being launched from hangars and shields were being raised over the exposed HoloNet transceivers.

As the closing velocity rose higher and higher, the engines straining to propel the strike-craft ever-faster, Luke glanced out his port S-Foil, seeing the rows of capital-grade torpedoes attached to pylons. It was essentially the same loadout the Squadron had used near Lutrillia, though the torpedoes themselves were a slightly more sophisticated Imperial Navy model.

"_Looks like _Cardan_-class," _Wedge commented. _"Okay, we'll make this simple. Stand by for torpedo launch on my mark, then get ready to get the hell out of here."_

A chorus of acknowledgments crackled out over the comm channel, Luke's among them.

The twelve Alliance warbirds slashed through space, before Wedge's calm Corellian drawl said, _"Torpedoes away."_

The range was trivially small for such large torpedoes, and they rocketed ahead of the Squadron, just as they turned to make their escape. Confusion turned to panic aboard the _Cardan_-class station, as twelve strike craft suddenly produced two hundred and forty torpedoes.

The fifty-six TIE Fighters that had been accelerating to meet twelve X-Wings suddenly changed their headings, veering toward the torpedoes instead.

Luke lost his view of the Imperials' desperate defense, as he swung the nose of his ship around, decelerating as hard as he could.

"_Standby to jump,"_ Wedge ordered.

** _Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

"The mission was a success, Admiral," Wedge said, finishing his report crisply. Luke stood at attention beside the Corellian, offering commentary when he'd been asked to do so and keeping his mouth shut the rest of the time. "Surprise was total, and we managed to destroy the station and the HoloNet relay it housed.

Thrawn sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the surface of his desk as his glowing eyes studied the two pilots. "By all accounts, Rogue Squadron acquitted itself well, Commander," he said. "As did every prong of this operation."

Luke and Wedge both nodded.

It surprised Luke to no end just how fatally overconfident the Imperial Starfleet could be. True, they had faced no real spaceborne force that could challenge them since the aftermath of the Clone Wars, but their tactics and doctrines were appalling when fighting anybody with even rough force parity.

Not that the Alliance had anything close to overall strategic parity with the Empire, Luke reflected. The Empire had over fifty thousand purpose-built star destroyers, while the Alliance only had around eighty; only seventeen of which were actual Alliance Naval units, and all of them courtesy of Admiral Thrawn.

Still, he didn't think that the Imperial Navy wasn't truly prepared to fight an opponent who was well-trained, motivated, and somewhat well-equipped, on equal terms. His belief was bolstered by the fact that every HoloNet relay that had connected the Outer Rim to the Mid Rim—which was, on a whole, strategically important enough to warrant Imperial Naval protection—were currently cooling debris fields.

"Go get some downtime," Thrawn said, his fingers ceasing their rhythmic tapping. "I'll be sending you out again. A longer mission, I'm afraid."

"Aye, sir. Thank you," Wedge said.

Thrawn nodded, then responded to their sharp salutes with one of his own.

Outside the Admiral's office, Wedge smiled wearily. "Keeps you on your toes," he said with his characteristic Corellian drawl.

Luke nodded. The one time that he'd ever met with Thrawn alone he'd definitely been kept on his toes. The alien admiral had an uncanny way of seeing things that no man should have been able to, and then using that knowledge ruthlessly—either in battle or in conversation.

"I'll see you later, Luke. I'm going to go check on the engineers."

Luke guessed that Wedge was going to check on one _specific_ engineer. He didn't begrudge him the happiness he'd found with Gwendolyn, though, and didn't say anything. Instead, he nodded. "See you later, Wedge."

_The cockpit of the T-65__ X-Wing shuddered and vibrated in the turbulence of the now-familiar atmosphere of a gas giant._

_Luke could feel the vibration of straining engines in his bones, as the quadruple engines propelled the strike-craft through the dense atmosphere at speeds that would have been impossible without the atmospheric shielding._

_Dread reached up, and threatened to choke him, as a feeling of premonition from the Force washed over him._

_Explosions from concussion missiles bracketed his ship once again, but he escaped death at the hands of the small missiles with a quick jink to port. The Force churned and whirled around him chaotic and uncertain; not the familiar calming presence he had grown accustomed to._

_The dreaded outline of an Imperial TIE L/N Fighter appeared in his vision, emerging from a swirling cloud of vapor directly ahead. For a moment apprehension lanced through him, the earlier premonition forgotten. Then the apprehension turned to horror, as his controls locked in place._

_The TIE grew larger and larger in his vision, and then its chin-mounted blaster cannons flared._

_Bolts of emerald plasma sliced through his shields, and, the moment before he died, he opened his mouth to scream._

Luke gasped from the familiar terror of the dream—one of too many repeats of the dream he'd had aboard the evacuation transport, weeks earlier—as a hand shook him awake.

"You okay, Commander?" a voice asked. The clipped accent was familiar but strange at once. It sounded much like Wedge's Corellian drawl, but more refined; more restrained. His eyes sought out the speaker.

Lieutenant Arthur Crunie looked at the executive officer of Rogue Squadron with something approaching concern in his green eyes. "Nightmare, sir?"

Luke groaned, pushing himself up from his bunk. He was sweaty and tired; the dream had given him little rest. He glanced around the squadron's quarters, and found that the rest of the men were gone.

The deference of a man ten years—at least—older than him bothered Luke, but he didn't say anything. Deference to superior officers was part of any military, and Luke had somehow found himself Crunie's superior officer.

"Something like that," Luke said.

Crunie nodded. "I think we all have more nightmares than a civvie'd guess, sir." From the look of understanding in his eyes, Wedge guessed that he faced his own night terrors. Nightmares of slaughtering men he'd once fought beside.

Luke nodded in return. It had been more than a nightmare. He could still feel the Force whirling around him, brushing against his skin as it screamed something at him in a language he didn't yet understand entirely.

"Yep." Luke looked around the squadron's quarters, and asked, "Where's everybody?"

"Raising hell and meeting with their sweethearts . . . I think, sir," Crunie answered, setting himself down on his bunk, and closing his eyes.

"Not much for raising hell?" Luke asked.

"Not really." Crunie snorted. "Besides, Captain Baldor said we'll be getting an info-dump from the rest of the fleet soon, and I wanted to see . . ." he trailed off before he laughed—a little bitterly. "I guess that doesn't matter any more; there aren't many people who're going to send me a letter—if they even know I'm alive, they'll think I'm a traitor."

Luke didn't respond right away. "People think a lot of things."

"Yes, they do."

Luke's touchpad—buried underneath the few personal effects he stashed in a sack under his bunk—chimed, and he leaned down to fish it out from under the bunk.

"See? Probably the info-dump."

"Probably," Luke agreed. He lit up the touchpad, and found that he had a single message waiting for him. He smiled a little, as he saw the sender's ID. Tapping the screen, the prerecorded message began playing.

A young woman no older than him smiled at the camera. _"Hello, Luke,"_ she said, her brown eyes smiling even as she kept her mouth composed into an acceptably regal position. Leia had begun wearing her hair down more, and the soft brown locks framed her face.

"_You . . . I hope you're well—the censors don't let much news about you and your squadron out."_ Luke recognized the polite way of saying 'I hope you're still alive' for what it was—the war had claimed too many people they had both known.

"_They're running us ragged here. The constitutional committee seems to sleep three hours a day, and drinks caf for the rest of it. It wears you out."_ She offered a laugh at her own words, and Luke smiled. _"But things are okay. They're okay."_

She paused for a moment. _"I guess there wasn't much to say, so I won't take up your day . . . I just wanted to say hello." _She smiled, less regally this time. _"I'll be thinking about you, Luke. Goodbye."_

The message froze, leaving Luke with a still-frame of Leia's face.

"Sounds like a nice girl," Crunie commented.

"I hardly know her," Luke responded, turning the screen of his touchpad off. "Besides, she's a princess, and I'm a—" he almost said 'farmer,' but caught himself, "—pilot."

"I don't think that matters too much—it sounded like _she_ wants to know you."

"Yeah . . . it does."

For a moment the Force swirled around Luke strong enough to take his breath away, and he wondered if it was telling him that a princess could like a farmer, or something else.

** _Dac, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

A tall uniformed man was waiting for Rogue Squadron. The throaty roar of strike-craft engines filled the hangar of Imprimis Base, though they were slowly dying down as throttles were cut.

William Sheplin's smile was small, as he watched the men of Rogue Squadron power down their birds and clamber out of their strike-craft. Luke had met the Imperial traitor several times, as Sheplin was the _de facto_ liaison between Admiral Thrawn and the Squadron, but he didn't know if he'd ever truly get used to the tall man's thin expressions.

The protocol was somewhat hazy as Wedge descended the step ladder an engineer had wheeled up to the cockpit of his X-Wing, but, as his date of commissioning can come after the defector's, he saluted the tall officer.

Sheplin returned the salute with fastidious precision and said, "It's good to see you, Commander."


	26. Chapter Twenty—William Sheplin

**WILLIAM SHEPLIN**

Modern missile doctrine has roots going back millennia, of course, but what we would recognize as modern missile doctrine and tactics are firmly rooted in Kol Huro, Lutrillia, and, more pivotally, Dac.

—From _Xim to Thrawn: The History of Naval Warfare  
_by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

* * *

**_Dac, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Commander Sheplin surveyed the crowded flight briefing room with his passive, sapphire eyes, smiling slightly without truly displaying any kind of warmth. "Good morning, gentles," he said clearly, holding a light-pointer stiffly by his side. His burns and wounds—only partially healed—throbbed in time with his pulse, but he kept the pain from his expression with great difficulty.

A chorus of 'good morning, sir' came from nearly four hundred pilots. Every pilot on the base who flew more than a garbage scow—over four hundred men and a few women, despite the briefing room only having a seating capacity of _three _hundred and fifty—was packed into the room, all of them watching the tall former Imperial officer intently.

"As the Rumor Mill has so kindly informed all of you—quite alarmingly and humorously, I might add—something is, as they say, 'in the air.' " Sheplin's voice was carefully metered, so that he could be clearly heard from the furthest corners of the room, though the pain that he hid exaggerated the fastidious accent of his homeworld in a more noticeable manner than usual.

"Nine days ago, Alliance intelligence assets relayed the departure of the Fourth Oversector Group from Kuat for the Outer Rim. Some of you may have heard about the Fourth. It was specially activated for this current Imperial . . . crisis. Force composition is firmly fixed at over one thousand star destroyers and forty-plus dreadnoughts of varying class."

The quiet room stilled to inhuman levels, as understanding sunk into the pilots' minds.

"The Special Operations Group has reason to believe that the Fourth Oversector Group is coming _here_." Sheplin signaled the display screen operator, and the massive screen switched from its standby colors to show a two-dimensional rendition of the Dac System. Three points beyond a segmented blue circle that represented the hyper-limit of the system had been highlighted with little annotations that read 'Likely Transition Points.'

Sheplin touched the tip of his light-pointer to the highlighted points. "These three points are what Admiral Thrawn, myself, and Colonel Sanderson believe are the most likely exit-vectors of the Imperial force. It is quite possible that, with their numbers, they will simply come through all of them simultaneously. Estimated arrival is tentatively believed to be within four days."

The tip of the pointer came to rest on a blue arrow annotated with 'Hornet,' and he said, "Hornet Group will be comprised of local defensive units, and will be responsible for giving the Imperials—" he didn't even stumble on the noun, despite the irony of still wearing an Imperial Naval uniform "—something to think about."

A hand went up. "Four hundred strike-craft and . . . other 'ships' against . . . what? Fifteen hundred _capital ships_? How are we going to be any more than a nuisance?"

"It's closer to seven thousand, including support craft," Sheplin corrected calmly, ignoring the slightly panicked murmur that followed. "And, as to the 'how' . . . well, we're going to be trying a method Admiral Thrawn came up with at a place called Kol Huro."

He touched his light-pointer to a blue arrow that had just appeared on the display screen. This one was annotated 'Crimson.' "This, gentles, is the real meat of the operation, and will be under my command. . . . I have to make this clear right away; Crimson Group is volunteer only."

Another hand came up. "Why is that, sir?"

Sheplin's eyes sought the speaker out, and raised an eyebrow at Lieutenant Valentine Walker. "Because, Lieutenant, the most optimistic computer sim run ended with ninety percent casualties for Crimson Group."

* * *

The modifications to the strike-craft of Imprimis Base continued at a fevered pace. Wire-feed welders sparkled with star-bright intensity and grinders threw arcing sprays of sparks as quick-release pylons were added to the staggered lines of strike-craft and long-range shuttles.

Torpedoes meant to be launched from star-destroyer launch tubes—or orbital missile batteries—were trucked, one at a time, on munitions carts to modified strike-craft. Winches, cables, and chain-hoists lifted the massive missiles to the pylons, where they were secured by ordnance specialists.

Sheplin watched the frenzied activity with something approaching pride. That was irrational, of course, as these spacers and Marines weren't 'his' men, and he had no right to be proud of them. Still, he was absolutely sure that if any Imperial officer had been insane enough to order four hundred TIE Fighters modified to launch capital-grade torpedoes, the hypothetical officer's ground crew would never have launched into the task with such a will.

"Quite a show," Colonel Sanderson commented. His obvious pride, Sheplin was certain, was far more logical.

"It is," Sheplin agreed. He'd witnessed one such modification to a perfectly good strike-craft squadron in the past—hardly even half a year prior—and was quite impressed by the speed of these modifications. Especially considering that they had _four hundred_ ships to modify and not just twelve.

"Just between you and me, Commander," Sanderson began, "will this all really make that much of a difference?"

Sheplin turned to look at Sanderson. His wounds were still throbbing, as they had most of the time since he'd gotten out of the infirmary aboard _Knight_. He probably shouldn't have gone back to his duties so quickly, he admitted . . . but there was just so much to be done. So much that couldn't be delegated to anyone but himself.

His eyes were slightly clouded by the pain, but he saw that Sanderson wasn't truly worried, so much as professionally concerned. "I've been in the sims most of the day, sir," Sheplin said quietly. "The Fourth's got a lot of firepower behind them . . . and a lot of missile defense capability. Providing we can close to just outside turbolaser range—to give the missiles the shortest flight times—and that we concentrate our firepower on just a 'few' targets, we should be able to take most of the dreadnoughts out, along with a sizable portion of their point-defense pickets. At least the sims say we can."

"Leaving only, oh . . . a thousand star destroyers for Thrawn to mop up," Sanderson said, shaking his head.

Sheplin shook his head as well, though for different reasons. "Actually, probably less." He gestured upward. "About every orbital tug that can have a few missiles strapped to its hull—and most can have more than just 'a few'—is having that done up in the fleetyards, sir."

"Yes, I know, Commander," Sanderson said, not impatiently but simply resignedly. He acknowledged that Sheplin had spent his entire adult life studying naval warfare, while he'd spent most of his life studying surface warfare, and the naval officer likely knew what he was talking about. If he didn't, Thrawn wouldn't have sent him.

"Yes, I know," Sanderson repeated. "But if you would care to explain how tugs—with inertial compensators that are just plain skraggy, by military standards—will help us any, I'd truly appreciate it."

Sheplin smiled thinly, something slightly humorous in it. "The tugs will make up Crimson Group, and while I admit that their compensators are maybe . . . a quarter as effective as a T-65's, they don't have to be fast."

"No?" Sanderson asked, wondering why he hadn't heard of 'Crimson Group' yet. Of course, he hadn't been able to make it to the pilots' briefing, and Sheplin barely had enough time to eat and sleep, let alone keep Sanderson up to date. Though, given the amount of flimsi-work Sanderson had to wade through, the odds were good that Sheplin's report about Crimson Group had been buried.

"No," Sheplin smiled again. He hadn't intentionally meant to keep this from Sanderson, but since both had found their days filled with either flimsi-work, defensive preparations, or simulator runs, he hadn't had a chance to fill the Base Commander in face-to-face.

"The tugs, sir," Sheplin said simply, "don't _look_ like warships. And, given the panic the Fourth will cause dropping into the system, it would be perfectly understandable if the 'unarmed' civilian and support craft in orbit—which will make up the majority of Crimson Group—try to make a run for the hyper-limit on a least-time course."

Sanderson's eyes glinted in understanding. "Ah," he said. "And I would assume the least-time course will take them right up the backside of the Fourth?"

"You assume correctly, sir." Sheplin's smile diminished fractionally. "They won't survive long, once they've launched, and we're looking for volunteers for their crews. But with the tugs acting as extra launch platforms, we should be able to put nearly _nineteen_ thousand birds in the air, including Hornet's launch."

Sanderson nodded. That wasn't even two and a half missiles to every ship in the Fourth Oversector Group, but he had no idea what the kill rates were for missile to ship ratios like that. Based on what Sheplin had mentioned about his tests in the sims, it still wouldn't be enough to take out the Fourth entirely.

"There's only one thing that does worry me, tactically," Sheplin admitted quietly, watching Sanderson perk up at the admission. "We're going to shoot ourselves dry in a hurry once we begin the battle—we won't have anything left for a second volley." He ran a finger along the side of his thumb's nail. "I've had about every magazine on the planet stripped for Hornet and Crimson Groups."

Before Sanderson could respond, Wedge Antilles separated himself from the chaotic work parties that filled the hangar and walked up to Sheplin and the Base Commander. "Sirs," he said, saluting. He looked at Sheplin. "Hornet Group's looking good, Commander. Should be ready for a dry run this evening or tomorrow."

"Thank you, Commander," Sheplin said. As the only squadron CO who had done anything even remotely similar to what was being attempted here, Wedge had found himself the impromptu commander of Hornet Group.

Wedge nodded at the older man that wore the same type of rank pips. "I don't know if you want to take Crimson up at the same time, for one big dry run, or if you want to do it separately."

Sanderson glanced at Sheplin, wondering why Wedge had been told about Crimson before he had been. He held his tongue though, as Wedge's phrasing stuck in his mind. " 'Take them up,' Commander?" he asked, directing his question to Sheplin.

Sheplin glanced at Sanderson. "Like I said; Crimson is a volunteer-only mission. Volunteers tend to be a little more willing, if the officer who came up with the mission is willing to volunteer himself." That was only half the truth. The more cold-blooded half. The other half was . . . irrational. The same type of irrationality on Thrawn's part that had made Sheplin lash out verbally at him on Hoth.

Sheplin turned back to Wedge. "We'll do one big dry run, Commander. Tomorrow morning. In the air at oh-six hundred. Live loads."

Wedge nodded. "We'll be there."

"Colonel!" the shout could be heard over the din of grinding and welding. A staffer in an Army uniform came running from the situation room. Saluting Sanderson, and by extension the two Naval officers, he quickly said, "a freighter just dropped out of hyperspace. The pilot reports that she was attacked in deep space by an Imperial force several thousand strong."

Sheplin, Wedge, and Sanderson all stiffened. "Where?" the Colonel demanded.

* * *

The debrief room was entirely empty, save for the Marine guards posted at the doors, and the three officers. Sheplin stood in the corner, while Sanderson conducted Lieutenant Taggert's debrief, observing the haggard woman's responses.

"You were attacked four days ago?" Sanderson asked gravely, a recorder on the table between him and Taggert.

"Yes, sir," Taggert said, her jade-green eyes looking exhausted. "Four days. I was interdicted on a supply run to Ruisto—one of those Mon Cal colony worlds—by a force several thousand strong. I only escaped, I think, because I managed to burn out the tractor pulling me in."

"But you didn't continue to Ruisto," Sanderson commented.

"No, sir. The interdiction field was blocking any direct route to Ruisto." She shuddered a little. "I've always heard about those hard calls that flag officers make, but now I think I understand." She looked at Sanderson. "Sir, I had a choice between trying to sneak around the Imp fleet to warn a colony world, or coming here, to warn a fully-settled world with billions of civilians."

"They call that the brutal arithmetic," Sanderson said.

"Yes, sir. I guess they do."

* * *

"What do you think, Commander?" Sanderson asked quietly, once Taggert had been dismissed from the room.

Sheplin had been tapping his index finger against his pant leg, aware fleetingly that he was starting to pick up one of Thrawn's more noticeable habits. "Her sensor logs agree with her report," he said, the finger still tapping. "If anything, it's good news."

"Good news, Commander?"

Sheplin shrugged. "Now we know exactly where the Imperials were, four days ago. If it takes them a very conservative day to pacify—or glass—Ruisto, it'll buy us another day at the least. Likely more." He turned toward the door. "I need to contact the Admiral, and advise the Dac government that we have absolute proof of an imminent Imperial attack—maybe that'll get them off of their backsides."


	27. Chapter Twenty-One—Gial Ackbar

**GIAL ACKBAR**

A line officer should always be suspicious of military intelligence.

—From _Thrawn  
_by William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

* * *

** _Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Thrawn finished playing the recording of Sheplin's message—that had been relayed by hypercomm-capable warships—and glanced around his office at the assembled officers. He motioned to the head of the Special Operations division, General Vernan. "Do you have any information that corroborates this?" he asked.

Vernan didn't answer right away. "No, Admiral, I do not," he admitted. "Though if Ruisto was attacked by such an overwhelming force, it's likely that they could have deployed an interdiction net around the system to keep any couriers from escaping."

Admiral Thek shook her head. "But why Ruisto?" she demanded. "It's the oldest Dac colony, true, but it doesn't have nearly the importance of her homeworld."

Vernan chewed on the inside of his cheek. "It could be that we were wrong about Dac being the Empire's outright objective," he said, his expression pained. "The Empire has tried to take Dac twice since their uprising and failed both times. It could be that they don't want to risk an open siege again."

"So they cut Dac off from her colonies and starve her into submission?" The voice belonged to the only Dac in the room, and every officer winced at the icy tone of Gial Ackbar's growl.

"Possibly," Thrawn said.

For a moment, the room was silent, each officer thinking about the implications. "It could be a ruse," Thek commented. "Misinformation isn't used often by Imperial Regulars, but Grant is a clever man. . . ."

Vernan shook his head. "Ruse or not, we have to act quickly—one way or the other."

"Agreed," Thrawn said. "However . . . I am not certain it is a ruse." His index finger tapped a slow rhythm on the top of his desk. "We haven't been able to raise Ruisto on the hypercomm, even though we're well within range."

The implication hung in the air.

Thrawn looked at Ackbar. "Your cruisers have been issued Hudson Boxes?" he asked.

Ackbar nodded. "The largest can only tow four at a time with their tractors, but they have them. They cut into their acceleration rates like a ciken," he said.

Thrawn nodded. "I truly hate to do this, Admiral," he said, "but I'm going to issue orders for you to drop into the Ruisto system with your cruisers and take a look."

"But the attack on Dac—"

"I am sorry, Admiral," Thrawn said, his voice uncharacteristically understanding. From what he'd told Ackbar, the Dac could only assume that the Chiss knew what it was like to be forced to put the defense of your homeworld in the hands of another only too well. "But you are the only detachable force I can spare."

Ackbar frowned, but held his tongue. Thrawn was cutting the only orders he could, under the circumstances. "As you command, Admiral," he said finally. "By your leave, I'll get underway within the hour."

"The sooner the better."

* * *

** _Ruisto Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Cruiser Squadrons Eight and Five emerged out of hyperspace with a shuddering flash twenty-nine light-minutes from Ruisto. Sixteen cruisers, some modified civilian cruise liners, and some outdated pre-Clone Wars relics, drove in-system on ballistic trajectories, their engines unlit.

A fraction of a second later, a destroyer division translated into realspace behind the cruisers, their engines unlit as well.

"All units reporting in," a staffer reported to Ackbar. "No damage from the translation."

Translating from hyperspace to realspace usually required bleeding off momentum so that the ship emerged with a relative velocity of zero in realspace, but Ackbar had instead gone for a pseudo-crash translation that would preserve some of their momentum. Any type of crash translation was remarkably hard on inertial compensators and hull integrity.

"Very well," Ackbar answered.

"All squadrons are at controlled emissions, Admiral," the same staffer reported a minute later.

Ackbar nodded.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, he knew, the combat information center was poring over the raw passive sensor data the ship and all of her consorts had been pulling in. Only a few minutes had passed before the tactical staffer stiffened in his seat, his earpiece squawking with CIC's preliminary report.

"Sir," the tactical officer began, "CIC reports several debris fields in orbit of the planet. No sensor platforms, defensive batteries, or comm relays have been detected. CIC believes the entire orbital infrastructure has been destroyed."

_It wasn't a ruse, _Ackbar thought grimly. _Or maybe it is a ruse to pull a scouting force away from Thrawn. Who could know?_

Ackbar held tight to his emotions, giving one curt nod. "The planet?" he demanded. Ruisto had been well developed enough to warrant a planetary shield, but no shield could hold against a thousand star destroyers for very long.

"Planetary emissions are seventy-percent of normal, sir," the staffer responded. "They may have been bombed from orbit, but their shield must have held fairly well."

Ackbar nodded. "Release the fleet from emissions control," he ordered. "Get the hypercomm up—the Admiral needs to be warned."

_At least this cost them time,_ he thought. _Even with as many ships as they have, it must have taken at least a day to completely destroy the orbital infrastructure._

"Hypercomm up, sir. Recording message."

Ackbar turned to face where a holo-recorder was mounted on his console. "Admiral, I have good and bad news . . ."


	28. Chapter Twenty-Two—The Battle of Dac

**THE FIRST BATTLE OF DAC**

Oh how we cried for those who gave their lives in the cold, heartless void.

—From_ The Journal of the Whills_

* * *

_** Dac Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

The Imperial Navy's Fourth Oversector Group dropped out of hyperspace with what even William Sheplin could admit had been first-rate astrogation. The entire flotilla was nearly two light-seconds wide, and coordinating a precise hyperspace translation for thousands of warships must have been a nightmare.

According to the Imperial operational timetables, the Fourth was exactly on time, dropping out of hyperspace within ten seconds of their execution date. From the Alliance's perspective, however, only the Devil could have managed to arrange for worse timing.

Hornet and Crimson Groups were on return orbital trajectories, returning to their respective home hangars after their second, and last, live training op. Any surprise they might have had, had they been in their intended positions, was gone, stolen by depressingly accurate sensors mounted on thousands of Imperial warships.

"Skrag," Sheplin swore softly, cursing the fickle nature of Fate. Taking a deep breath, he touched the side of his headset, activating a comlink. "Hornet Leader, this is Crimson Leader, over."

"_Hornet Lead here," _Wedge Antilles' voice came over the headset with a crackling pop of static. _"I assume you've seen our visitors, sir?"_

"Seen, registered, and skragged my pants," Sheplin replied, eliciting a dry chuckle from the other side of the comlink. "Turn Hornet Group around, Commander. Keep your heading parallel to my course. . . . I think we've lost our chance to surprise them."

"_Acknowledged, Crimson Lead,"_ Wedge responded._ "We still might have a surprise or two left for the Imps, sir. Hornet Lead, out."_

Sheplin manipulated his tactical plot, inputting a new course change that would have them flip end-for-end and accelerate away from the planet. Finishing plotting his course, he turned to the pilot. "Execute course change," he ordered, simultaneously sending the new course to the rest of Crimson Group via the Group's tac-net.

The auburn-haired pilot with jade-green eyes nodded, her hands caressing the controls of the freighter that had been modified to launch thirty-eight capital-grade torpedoes. Had Sheplin's mind not been preoccupied with the terrible arithmetic of the coming battle, he might have registered that the pilot wasn't overly surprised by the sudden appearance of the Imperial fleet.

The light freighter _Arcadia_ flipped end-for-end, as both Alliance groups matching the maneuver, her compensator groaning from the torment being inflicted on it.

* * *

"Sir," a staffer said, saluting Grant. Unlike the majority of staffers on the bridge of the _Sword of Anaxes_, he was standing on the command deck like Grant. Also unlike any of the staffers, he wore the uniform of the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps. "Lord Vader's compliments, Grand Admiral. My Lord has . . . _noticed_ that you weren't answering his comm hails. He requests that he be immediately informed when the orbital defenses have been swept aside. He is impatient to begin the invasion."

"Is he?" Grant asked. "Why, thank you, Lieutenant. I spend my waking moments wondering what tests Lord Vader's patience."

The Stormtrooper Corps staffer paled. Obviously, he was someone who worked in close proximity of the Dark Lord, and had seen more than a few officers 'permanently' removed for such remarks.

"All ships are reporting cleared for action, sir," a staffer from down in the crew-pit said.

"Very well," Grant said, nodding quickly. Dismissing the Stormtrooper Corps staffer with a gesture, he strode to the tactical plot. The vast field of icons representing warships of His Imperial Majesty's Navy were slowly shifting from green to blue, one-by-one, as ships reported cleared for action.

Two groups of Rebel icons were accelerating from in-system, their relative velocity pitifully low but slowly rising. CIC had marked the larger group as strike-craft, though their acceleration rates were quite low for fighters. The smaller group had been marked as sublight tugs, light freighters, and orbital defense craft. Their acceleration rates were low, as well, though that might have just been from low-grade inertial compensators.

The acceleration rates of the larger Rebel group were low enough that Grant had a sneaking suspicion that they were loaded down with capital-grade torpedoes. Thrawn's strike-craft torpedo platforms had taken Commodore Donnelly and Admiral Fletcher by surprise, but Grant was well-aware of the starfighters' new-found ability, and wouldn't be caught flat-footed like his fellow Naval officers.

Clouds of blips were launching from the blue icons, as thousands of TIE Fighters took to space. But none of them charged for the inbound Rebel groups. Instead, they took up positions among the Fourth's forward picket, tying their tac-nets in with the fleet's missile defense nets.

Grant's powered missile envelope was still half an hour short of the Rebel groups, and he folded his hands behind his back in a patient motion, waiting for the range to drop.

* * *

** _Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Admiral Thrawn waited for the hypercomm with carefully enforced patience.

He stood at the fore of the flag bridge, his hands folded lightly behind his back, staring out at the endless darkness, punctuated only sporadically by pinpricks of stars. The Alliance and Hand fleets were in position, with lines of Hudson Boxes being towed astern by tractor mounts, ready to jump to Dac at a command.

There was no trepidation in his heart. For nearly forty years, Thrawn had fought on behalf of his people—whoever they be. He'd faced evil that belonged in the heart of black holes, had reduced star systems to dying memories, and had witnessed the deaths of billions. Any trepidation that might have been in his heart as a young ensign was long gone, replaced by the cold, steely focus of a warrior ready to do battle.

The holo-emitter hummed as it came to life. A holographic rendition of William Sheplin's head grew to life-sized proportions. _"Admiral,"_ the young warrior said gravely. _"Grant is in position. We are, at the time of recording this, twenty-five minutes from missile launch. We were caught out of position, and I believe whatever surprise we had is gone." _The sapphire-eyed man stared straight at the holo-recorder, a grim smile on his lips. _"Don't stop for caf."_ The message ended, and the hologram of Sheplin froze.

"Flash the fleet," Thrawn ordered, switching the holo-emitter off. "Execute jump orders."

The order was repeated back to Thrawn automatically by a staffer down in the crew-pit, his voice wavering slightly from the tension in it.

* * *

HIMS _Keton _was a full generation behind the curb.

The Imperial Navy's continually aggressive modernization was the byproduct of the Republic Navy's do-or-die situation in the Clone Wars, but had borne more fruit during the era of the New Order than that of the Old. Fruit such as the _Immobilizer 418_-class heavy cruiser.

The _Immobilizer _was essentially a stripped-down _Vindicator_-class, with nearly none of the armament of her heavy cruiser cousin. Her only true selling point had been the four experimental—at the time—gravity well generators laid into her hull.

The experimental class hadn't found much success in the line of battle, being too slow to keep up with the normal heavy-cruisers, and too lightly armored and armed to survive being used in a star destroyer line of battle. But whatever success hadn't been found by most line officers had been belied by the success of an alien commodore named Mitth'raw'nuruodo.

Thrawn's usage of the new class had been nothing short of ingenious—or insane, depending upon his audience's mindset. Ingenious and insane enough to warrant the green-lighting of a heavier hyperspace interdictor. One that could survive in the main line of battle with star destroyers.

In the ensuing building spree of the new _Interdictor_-class star destroyers, the _Immobilizer 418_ had found herself simultaneously no longer being produced in any serious numbers and outmoded by the new generation of the far more powerful _Interdictor_s.

Which was how HIMS _Keton _had found herself relegated to the less than glamorous role of guarding the Fourth Oversector's flank along with eleven other hyperspace interdictors and eight-dozen star destroyers.

Lieutenant Commander Pule sat behind his tactical terminal, watching the waves of pulsed energy sweep across his tactical plot. The sensors were hammering away at empty space, while the gravity well generators created an artificial hyper-limit that would pull any ship that happened to skim through it out of hyperspace.

The boredom was killing him, but the fear that hid in the depths of the boredom was far worse. Fear that the most ingenious military commander in the galaxy's recent memory was going to drop on top of the _Keton_ and reduce on Remiah W. Pule to a cloud of rapidly expanding atoms.

Of course, save for direct intervention of Providence or remarkable stupidity on his comrade's parts, it would be Thrawn who would shortly be a cloud of atoms. Not that that thought did much to assuage the fear that was still hiding in the deepest recesses of his mind.

Fear that was realized a moment later, when a wave of pulsed energy suddenly returned to the sensor dishes. "New contacts, bearing zero-three-nine," he heard himself report in a detached voice as his training took over.

As the CIC, buried in the depths of the _Keton_, labored feverishly to account for all of the unexpected star destroyer-sized contacts—a full extra sixty-odd contacts, in addition to the twenty-odd expected ones—a quiet corner of Lieutenant Commander Pule's mind reflected that at least it had been Providence that had weighed in on Thrawn's side, instead of stupidity on their side.

* * *

** _Dac Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

"_Approaching our launch point, Crimson Lead," _Wedge's voice reported over Sheplin's headset. _"In . . . one-six-zero seconds."_

Sheplin activated his comlink. "Copy, Hornet Leader." He glanced at his own readouts. The slight differences in their vectors wouldn't be enough to make the launch geometry _much_ more complicated.

If both groups salvoed their torpedoes at the same moment, Hornet Group's salvo would land twelve seconds ahead of Crimson Group's, and while staggering their impacts by twelve seconds didn't sound like that much of a bother, it would be the relative difference between a pair of blaster bolts and a single plasma _cannon_ bolt.

As such, Sheplin had coordinated the launches with what amounted to obsessive care over the last fifteen minutes. Geometry hadn't ever been his favorite subject in secondary school, but the Imperial Naval Academy at Anaxes had drilled the skill into his impressionable sixteen-year-old mind with ruthless energy.

"All right," Sheplin said over Crimson Group's channel, touching the side of his headset to activate the boom-mic. "This is it, boys and girls. Stand by for launch in . . ." he glanced down at the twin timers ticking down, "one-nine-zero seconds."

The improvised squadron leaders began responding with crackling acknowledgments, when the EWO sitting at an improvised electronic warfare station suddenly swore explosively in Huttese. "Bonph kark henaa see Sea!" Switching back to Basic, he reported quickly, "Missile launch! The Imps are firing on us!"

Sheplin very carefully controlled his voice when he responded, exceedingly grateful that the EWO wasn't on either of the Group-wide channels. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said coolly. "Please refrain from peeling the paint off of the hull when you report, if you would be so kind."

Realizing what he'd done, the EWO nodded. He might have reddened slightly, but the pale pallor of his complexion—understandable, given that something close to five thousand missiles were accelerating on collision courses with both Alliance groups—balanced it out, and Sheplin couldn't tell for certain.

He was slightly surprised that the Imperials had waited as long as they had, and he silently tipped his proverbial cap to the officer who'd ordered the missile launch. The temptation—made all the more tempting from the massive force imbalance—for the Imperial commander would have simply been to fire at the extreme edge of the powered missile envelope, using their greater number of launch tubes to utterly saturate whatever pitiful defenses the two Alliance groups could put up. Instead, the Imperial commander had waited until the Alliance groups had entered his _effective_ missile envelope, and had carefully restrained his follow-up launches, so as not to empty his magazines and overload his fire-control links.

Of course, that restraint also meant that the majority of the Fourth Oversector Group's star destroyers were well within the _Alliance_'s effective missile envelope.

The number of inbound torpedoes obviously meant Grant understood just how dangerous strike-craft and orbital tugs laden with missiles could be. Survival against the five thousand-odd inbound torpedoes was a likelihood that could be measured in single percentages, but Sheplin felt nothing but familiar icy determination taking hold of his mind as they rocketed closer.

He glanced at his readouts again, then touched the side of his headset. "Standby for launch in four-zero seconds."

"Not much time," the auburn-haired pilot commented.

Sheplin turned to his left, to look at the woman who'd just spoken. Something in her voice . . .

He saw the regulation blaster in her hand only a splint instant before plasma flared from its muzzle. Detached panic rippled through his mind, followed by intense, searing pain. Then there was nothing.

* * *

Grant's eyes widened perceptibly as the CIC struggled to number the incoming torpedoes. Despite understanding intellectually the capabilities of a strike-fighter as a missile platform, his mind hadn't truly been prepared to accept the idea of just how capable they truly were. Nearly _nineteen thousand_ torpedoes were streaking toward the Fourth Oversector Group, launched by nothing larger than light freighters and strike-craft.

There was no need for orders. Every ship's gunnery compliment had been briefed about the capabilities of the Alliance missile-strike-craft, and orders from a Grand Admiral would only have distracted them from the mission before them.

Instead, he turned to look at the signal officer down in the crew-pit. "Signal from the rearguard?" he questioned. If the strike-craft had launched their birds, he had no doubt that Thrawn was on his way to mousetrap Grant between two walls of missiles.

The staffer shook his head.

* * *

The missiles streaking to kill Crimson Group passed the missiles streaking to kill the core ships of the Fourth. They passed within eighty thousand kilometers at their closest approach, and passed by each other in the blink of an eye, their relative velocities beyond sentient comprehension.

The missiles streaking to kill Hornet and Crimson Group passed by those that had been launched by their targets, and came screaming in at the group of frantically evading strike-craft. Decoys, chaff, and signal jamming lit up the void, as the strike-craft, tugs, and light freighters desperately tried to lure their killers away.

As the distance closed, panicked spacers fired plasma cannons at the incoming missiles, as if their shots were even capable of hitting missiles closing at a quarter of the speed of light.

* * *

Valentine's Walker stomach lurched as the first of the detonations began rippling around Hornet Group in a never-ending blanket working its way toward her position. She redlined her inertial compensators as she responded to Commander Antilles' shouted order to break, creating as much acceleration as she could on her new vector.

The proton warhead of a capital-grade torpedo exploded less than two thousand meters off of her port S-Foil, lashing at her shields with nuclear fury. They strained to contain the force of the multi-megaton warhead for a brief moment, the shields turning opaque with the strain.

The last thing that Valentine thought about, before the fiery strength of the proton warhead vaporized her shield generator, was the way her brother's eyes had crinkled when he laughed. Then there was nothing.

* * *

Eighteen thousand and eighty torpedoes launched from both Crimson and Hornet Groups entered the extreme point-defense range of the Fourth Oversector Group's pickets.

Anti-missile missiles and turbolaser batteries mounted on the picket ships, firing kinetic fragmentation rounds, spoke suddenly. Hundreds of fragmentation rounds, being chased and then passed by the hard-accelerating AMMs, rocketed out of the mouths of their batteries. Hundreds of fragmentation rounds became _thousands_, as the turbolaser batteries of star destroyers began opening up.

AMMs collided with torpedoes in flashes of light, as the torpedoes—coming in at a relative velocity of .3 _c—_were turned into rapidly expanding spheres of debris. Stray proton warheads went off as the torpedoes they'd been mounted in were destroyed. Kinetic rounds exploded in carpets of fiery blossoms, peppering the incoming torpedoes with shrapnel, either destroying them outright or simply battering their casings.

Decoys were launched from the pickets and star destroyers, pulling hundreds of missiles away from their targets. EW scramblers on both sides snarled, blinding the sensors of thousands of missiles and ships, overloading them with pulses of energy; heat, radio, light . . .

As the torpedoes began their final approach, the close-in point-defense blaster cannons spoke, lacing the storm of torpedoes with plasma.

Of the original eighteen thousand and eighty torpedoes that had been launched, nearly half were outright destroyed by point-defense fire. Another two-thirds of the survivors were either blinded by EW scramblers, or lured away from their original targets by decoys.

The Imperial Navy's Fourth Oversector Group killed eighty-five percent of the incoming fire . . . but two thousand six hundred and nine torpedoes made it through.

* * *

Grant swayed on his feet as over two hundred proton warheads bombarded the shielding of the _Sword of Anaxes_, the internal artificial gravity flickering dangerously. A moment later, the engines were cut, to preempt a lucky hit on their inertial compensators. If the compensators even _flickered_ for a heartbeat while the ship was under acceleration, the entire crew would be instantly splattered against the bulkheads in a thin, red paste.

Shields strained and armor plating buckled as the proud dreadnought strained to hold herself together under the bombardment. An explosion of light through the bridge's view-ports was the only indicator that their closest consort, _Executor_, wasn't faring as well.

But through the pounding of two hundred proton warheads, the dreadnought lumbered on. Her port engines were gone, reduced to slag, and her entire dorsal hull was a mass of glowing durasteel, warped and twisted. Atmosphere poured from the gaping holes in her skin like blood from a giant. But still, she lived.

"Report," Grant demanded, knowing that in the bowels of the ship, the captain of the _Anaxes_ was likely demanding the exact same thing. Though Grant's demand was for the condition of the _fleet_, not of the ship he was on.

There was absolute silence for a moment from the crew-pits. "Dreadnought Divisions One through Three have been effectively destroyed or disabled, sir. Four hundred pickets have been destroyed or disabled, along with one hundred and sixty star destroyers." The staffer who'd reported listened to an earpiece for a moment. "CIC reports that the groups that have fired on us have been destroyed or scattered, sir."

Grant nodded, and wondered if the trap had been sprung, or if this was just the opening move to the deadly dance. His personal comlink chimed, and he dug it out. The bridge lighting flickered for a moment, along with the holographic tactical plot.

He pressed a stud on the comlink. "Grant, go ahead."

"_Grand Admiral,"_ a deep, baritone voice said, mechanical breathing heavy in the other comlink's pickup. _"Are the planetary defenses destroyed?"_

* * *

**_Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Thrawn watched the turbolaser bolts flash through the empty void, crashing into deflector shields with enough pent-up energy to slag cities.

They were taking too long.

If Sheplin had adhered to his launch schedule as he was bound to have done, Thrawn was already ten minutes late. Missile volleys had likely already been exchanged, and Sheplin's lightly-armored command was doubtlessly a collection of broken, dying ships.

Thrawn's ships had rough parity with their current Imperial counterparts, but held their hopefully devastating Hudson Boxes in reserve. They couldn't afford to waste the one-shot missile pods against a rear-guard force.

_Patience is the trait of a warrior._

Thrawn turned to the flag bridge's signal officer, down in the crew-pit. "Signal all ships to expedite their actions—we're behind schedule."

* * *

** _Dac Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

Grant glanced at the tactical plot. "They are, Lord Vader, but I would recommend—"

"Hypercomm from Salamander Force," a signal staffer reported, immediately catching Grant's attention. "They have engaged Thrawn, and have him pinned in position."

"I'm afraid I still have work to do," Grant said dryly into the comlink. "I would recommend against landing right now, Lord Vader. Thrawn's still loose." He cut the channel without waiting for a response.

The hypercomm from the rear-guard Salamander Force was sparse on tactical details, given the bandwidth limitations on FTL communications, but Grant's tactical plot had been updated with the tactical situation the rear-guard was facing.

Grant had detached over five times the number of star destroyers to his rear-guard as should have been required to, theoretically, wipe Thrawn's force from the face of the universe. As it had turned out, Salamander Force had only one-fifth again as many ships as Thrawn.

_Damn NavInt,_ Grant thought bitterly. _Always so damned certain that they know what the kark they're talking about._

It wasn't like Thrawn's force strength jumping from twenty star destroyers to around eighty would have much of an effect on the course of the battle. Even if Thrawn had quadrupled his line of battle, he was still outnumbered ten-to-one in star destroyers. _Nine-to-one,_ he reminded himself bitterly. The defenders of Dac had cut the odds down quite a bit, even if they were still stacked heavily against the Chiss admiral.

Still, it was damned annoying that NavInt couldn't find its own winba if it used both hands and a sensor platform.

"Signal to all ships," Grant said, his voice calm and collected, once he'd managed to get his thoughts under control. "Emergency hyperspace jump to Salamander Force's position." His smile became almost hungry.

The _Sword of Anaxes _turned over on her axis like the lumbering, half-maimed giant she was. The thrust imbalance from her engines forced the helm officers to kill the starboard engines, cutting her acceleration by two-thirds. Still, she'd never been built for speed, and the loss of acceleration was almost inconsequential.

Dac's hyper-limit was larger than most habitable worlds', given its slightly higher-than-average surface gravity, but as large as it was, it hadn't yet caught the massive Fourth Oversector Group like the Alliance's operational plans had hoped it would. As such, there was nothing to stop the Fourth from making a short jump forty light minutes away . . . to where Salamander Force was fighting for its life.

_So this is how a good man dies,_ Grant thought, a touch of painful melancholy in his heart as the _Sword of Anaxes _rocketed through hyperspace.

* * *

Vader seethed with irritation while he stood on the aft port hangar deck, watching Stormtroopers and Army personnel twiddle their thumbs in boredom. They should have been _landing_ by now, damn it, but Grant was still running around like a headless dewback trying to find Thrawn.

But even as the thoughts seared through him, he felt something he had not felt in years. The Dark Side of the Force, ever his servant, suddenly screamed in outrage at the future it was being presented with. Outrage and sudden fear.

Signaling the Death troopers flanking him, Vader strode toward the TIE/AD X1 that looked startlingly out of place among the more primitive TIE/LN Fighters. Once they came out of hyperspace, he would deal with whatever had made the Darkness suddenly recoil in surprise.

* * *

** _Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_**

The ship shuddered underfoot as it emerged from hyperspace, followed closely by nearly six thousand ships. Streaks of light collapsed into stars, stunningly bright as stars are when viewed from deep space.

The tactical plot flickered as it updated, the friendly holographic yellow sphere that had been Dac replaced by a void. Painfully few blue icons were all that was left of the rear-guard force. A small sea of red icons floated beside the remaining blue icons, while smaller red icons marked the missiles rocketing toward the remaining Imperial vessels.

"Sir . . ." a tactical staffer began, confusion in his voice, "something isn't right."

"This is _Thrawn_, Lieutenant. If something doesn't look right, it's probably because he's got a spare pazaak deck up his sleeve." Grant's voice was appropriately pithy, though he felt his insides tighten in trepidation.

"Aye, sir. But . . . it looks like they're trailing a skrag-ton of debris, sir. CIC thinks they're damaged."

"They've obviously just fought a battle," Grant said, his voice more reproving than dismissive.

"Aye, sir," the staffer acknowledged. "But, sir, _every_ ship class is trailing the exact same amount of debris."

* * *

Admiral Thrawn stood on the deck of the _Knight_, hands clasped behind his back. His mouth was compressed into a flat, merciless line while his eyes blazed. He'd seen the icons on his plot, and he knew that the Fourth Oversector Group had come calling.

He glanced at his own tactical plot again. The Imperial fleet was launching a steady stream of torpedoes, though not enough to concern him overly. Imperial naval doctrine had never been based around accurate long-range missile fire, and, even outnumbering him ten-to-one in capital ships, their fire wasn't going to kill many of his ships.

"Now," he ordered simply, the one, cold syllable cutting through the nervous murmur of staffers.

* * *

Grant felt as if his heart had stopped beating for a moment, as he held his breath in. His eyes were wide, as he stared disbelievingly at the tactical plot. Just over _one hundred and twenty-five_ _thousand _torpedoes were streaking toward the Four Oversector Group.

_Have to hand it to him,_ a very quiet corner of his mind told him, awed by the firepower on display, _when Thrawn sets a trap, he sets a karking _trap_._

There was _no_ way a star destroyer could fire that many torpedoes. _No way_. The _Victory I_-class was the only dedicated capital ship-sized torpedo platform the Imperial Navy had that could keep up with a modern fleet, but she only had eighty tubes laid into her hull, and could only cycle fresh torpedoes every forty seconds. And even the _Victory I_-class had the significant drawback that it would launch every torpedo in its magazine in just fifteen minutes. Even if _every_ ship, including escorts, in Thrawn's force was a _Victory I_, and had somehow launched_ all _of their torpedoes at once, that would have still left them short compared to the firepower Thrawn had just put into space.

_They must have emptied their magazines to do this,_ he thought, still awed by the sheer amount of firepower entering extreme defensive range. _Hell, they probably empty the magazines of a few _planets_ to do this. . . . But it's working, isn't it?_ he silently added, watching as the point-defense fire from the entire Fourth Oversector Group began eating ineffectually into the massive tide about to crash against them.

"Signal all ships," Grant said, his voice suddenly coming out thick and hoarse. "Emergency jump. Jump now. Jump anywhere. Just _jump_."

Star destroyers, cruisers, the few remaining dreadnoughts, and all manner of escort ships began vanishing one-by-one into streaks of light as they made unplanned and uncharted hyperspace jumps to escape the onrushing tide of proton warheads. The fighter screen was left behind to face their doom, though a single experimental TIE model made the jump.

Against the first volley, fired by Dac's defenders, the Fourth Oversector Group's torpedo kill rate had been eighty-five percent. Against the _second_ volley, as the Group's ranks continually thinned in a panic-ridden escape, the kill rate was barely even ten percent.

One of the largest battles in the history of the galaxy ended forty-six minutes and twelve seconds after it officially began. The original defenders lost two hundred and six strike-craft, shuttles, orbital tugs, and light freighters; four hundred and twenty-four men and women. Thrawn's force lost four star destroyers, four cruisers, five destroyers, and nine point-defense frigates to the Imperial's opening missile barrage; one hundred and thirty thousand and ninety-eight men and women.

Only a hundred Imperial star destroyers, two dreadnoughts, and their escorts managed to escape the slaughter.

The attackers' losses took twenty-nine hours to tally accurately.

**THE END OF PART TWO**

**A/N**

Howdy, folks

I've never left one of these author's notes on this site, and, in retrospect, that's something that I regret. Author's notes are a direct line to the readers, and I regret not talking directly to everyone who's read this story and _Crossroads_. . . . Cumulatively, _Crossroads_ and _The Killing Grounds_ have been viewed over 32,000 times, and that just blows my mind, so thank you to everyone who's read this story.

I managed to talk my coauthor from _Crossroads_, Joshua Wolff, into being a part of this, and we're working on Part Three now. I've also talked another author friend into helping with it, since he's interested in this story as well. I hope that the three of us working on the story will increase output, but I won't make any promises that we can't keep.

If you want to help us with this story, as a beta reader, an editor, or if you have any ideas about the story please either leave a review or PM me. I'll try to respond to PMs in a timely manner, but life gets a bit crazy sometimes. Even if you just want to leave a snarky review about how the prose sucks, please do that as well. We need all the help we can get, and every review with _useful_ feedback is golden to us.

Thank you all for reading this long, and thank you all for 32,000 views!

—Joseph


	29. Interlude II

**INTERLUDE**


	30. Chapter Twenty-Three—Failure

**FAILURE**

There is always a cost to failure.

—Ancient Sith proverb

* * *

** _Imperial Center, Core Worlds, 0 ABY_**

The ISB's main office was unassuming. Just a tall, monolithic skyscraper that had been appropriated from the now-defunct Republic Domestic Security. The only unusual thing about the main office was the lack of any kind of windows on the lower levels.

An internal security service large enough to terrorize a galaxy needed more clerks than field agents, and Colonel Hiram Flynn knew that most of those lower levels were filled with armies of typists and analysts instead of the torture chambers civilians assumed were there.

No, the torture chambers were on Centax-3, one of Coruscant's four moons—it was better to keep that sort of thing out of sight . . . but not _too_ far out of sight.

The air taxi pulled away from the landing pad, leaving him to make the long walk to the 'front door' of the administrative levels.

A receptionist—an actual living one, and not a droid programmed to be artificially pleasant—looked up and smiled at his approach. He didn't recognize her, but it was clear from her smile that she had recognized him.

"Colonel," the receptionist said. "It's so nice to see you again."

Despite the very real danger he might be facing once he reported in person, he smiled in return. The electronic report of his pursuit of the mysterious 'mover and shaker'—who had turned out to be none other than Grand Admiral Thrawn (KIA)—had been forwarded from Kuat, and had arrived on Imperial Center a week before Flynn.

"It's nice to see you too, miss," Flynn said, trying to remember if he knew her, and, if so, what her name was. "I have an appointment with Deputy Director Ison in twelve minutes . . . if you could send me in his direction, I would appreciate it."

She gave him an odd look, and he smiled slightly. It must have seemed odd for a full colonel to be asking directions to an office that he'd been to hundreds of times before, but she did as asked, and directed him toward the lift.

If not for the slightest bit of hesitation when she said 'the Deputy Director's office,' Flynn wouldn't have been more suspicious than usual.

* * *

Deputy Director Tonor Ison leaned back in his chair, hoping against hope that that bashard wouldn't make it to his office. His _current_ office, that was. Not the one he'd resided in for the last three years, that now held four 'malfunctioning' assassination droids waiting for an ISB colonel.

The tradition of the two men trying to kill one another was as old as it was complicated. They'd been jockeying for positions that the other held for nearly all of their time in the ISB, and the turbulent working relationship had resulted in vibroblades in the dark, plasma bolts fired by snipers on neighboring skyscrapers, and one Noghri assassin team loaned by Vader.

The Noghri team had never made it back, and Ison had barely managed to escape Vader's wrath for losing an invaluable, highly-trained strike team. 'Barely' had involved the removal of an ear via a plasma blade.

After the Noghri Incident, Ison had been careful to never get his hopes too high, especially when they involved the infuriating ISB colonel.

There was a chime from his comlink, and he pressed down on one of the studs. "Yes?" he asked.

"_There's a Colonel Flynn to see you, sir,"_ his secretary said.

Sighing, he said, "Send him in."

The front door opened, letting the sound of delighted laughter from his secretary in. She was laughing at something Flynn was saying, and Ison silently bit down to keep himself from letting too much irritation show.

Flynn entered the office a moment later, letting the secretary close the door behind him. The man was smiling slightly, his short frame taking up little of the doorway. His blunt, nondescript features were all amused.

"Only four?" he asked cheekily, sitting down in a free chair without an invitation. "You're slowing down." The flap of his sidearm's holster was unbuttoned.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Of course not," Flynn agreed pleasantly.

Ison stifled a grimace. Then leveled a look at his guest. "What happened?" he demanded. "On Hoth."

Flynn looked confused for a moment. "Well, for one thing, there was a rather big battle. That was mostly Admiral Fletcher's doing, though—I was mostly along for the ride on that one."

"Why didn't you get Thrawn?" The words were blunt and heavy.

"Because I never had the opportunity. By the time I was combing their 'Dorn Base' he was on a transport heading out of the system—besides, I wasn't aware it was even him, at the time."

"I find that a little hard—" Ison cut himself off at the sound of his comlink chiming. Grumbling slightly, he picked it up. "Yes?" he snapped.

"_Send Colonel Flynn to my office,"_ came the curt response, before the line clicked dead. Ison had paled just slightly at the voice's unique, half-synthetic inflection. He had just snapped at the man who routinely made political dissidents disappear to camps that would give Hell a good run for its money.

Still, even as he thought about the possible later ramifications for that mistake, he smiled slightly. "Looks like you finally karked up, Flynn," he said. "Director Sollaine wants to see you."

* * *

Director Sollaine was a tall, thin creature who looked less like a man than a cold instrument of death. The talon-like prosthetic hands resting on his desk and glinting in the light from outside his window certainly added to the intimidating effect. Instead of covering them with synthflesh, he'd left them bare and metallic—the ends coming to sharp needles, like a surgeon's scalpels.

"Colonel." The one-word greeting carried no tonal inflection, though a false smile played around his lips. He didn't offer Flynn a seat, and, unlike in Ison's office, the colonel didn't take the liberty of sitting without an invitation. Instead, he nodded respectfully, wisely remaining silent and standing.

"Failure always has a cost," Sollaine quoted, letting the words hang in the air. "You uncovered the new force behind the Alliance, but failed to kill him. That is a failure that will have consequences." He lifted one hand, studying the servos in the prosthetic with gray eyes. "Were you aware that we have no direct communication with the Outer Rim, right now, Colonel?"

"No, Director."

Sollaine made a sound like a verbal shrug. "Thrawn's doing. Over eighty hypercomm and HoloNet relay station in the Mid Rim have been destroyed, and without those links we have no idea what the current strategic situation in the Rim is. . . . You can tell Naval Intelligence is skragging itself; this is the first time they've ever admitted to not knowing something."

"This is Thrawn, sir; the situation'll be bad."

"Indeed," Sollaine agreed. "Billions of Imperial citizens very well may die before he is brought to heel. Because you failed." He looked right at Flynn. "I might have been compelled to offer you the chance to finish the job, but the Emperor has already given that task to someone more worthy."

Flynn didn't ask who, though he guessed it was either Vader or one of the Emperor's Hands.

"Why shouldn't I kill you, Colonel?"

The threat chilled Flynn, but he kept his face neutral through force of will. "I don't know why you would, Director."

Sollaine chuckled—it was a raw, humorless thing. "Perhaps to motivate all the other hot-shot troubleshooters to not bite off more than they could chew—as you did. Perhaps because I've grown tired of watching Ison fail to kill you for years."

The last reason made Flynn chuckle, though it was a stressed, uncharacteristically false-sounding thing.

Sollaine shook his head. "Those assassin droids in his office?" He made a tutting sound. "Amateurish. If he wasn't the son of Moff Ison, I'd have let you kill him a long time ago—there are painfully few uses for an amateur in this business, after all.

"But you knew I wasn't going to kill you when you walked in here, didn't you, Colonel?" Sollaine asked.

"Yes, Director," Flynn lied.

"Good. Do you know why?" he asked, before continuing on without waiting for an answer. "Because Thrawn will make anyone look like a fool, no matter how capable they are—and because you came closer than anyone I can remember to actually taking him; even when you didn't know who you faced."

_Closer than you could imagine,_ Flynn thought to himself, remembering the feel of his sidearm as he leveled it at Thrawn's back.

"But, as I said earlier; failure always has a cost." He smiled a little, this time genuinely, as if he was anticipating what was coming.

Sollaine stood up, walking to where Flynn was standing, and seizing one of the Colonel's arms in one of his metallic hands. Flynn winced as he felt the talons cut through the cloth of his uniform, cutting into his skin, but didn't move. Blood wet the inside of his uniform sleeve, soaking the cloth until it stuck to his flesh. Sweat appeared on his brow, the pain throbbing, though he forced his expression to remain level.

He knew, though, that the Director hadn't even begun. He could hear capacitors in the prosthetic begin charging; a slow, evil whine that filled him with dread.

"Don't worry, Colonel," Sollaine said, mimicking a doctor's speech. "This won't hurt at all."

It did.


	31. Chapter Twenty-Four—The Making of a Man

**THE MAKING OF A MAN**

Different cultures have different views on what makes a boy a man; ceremonies that are little more than ritualized torture, the onset of puberty, or the loss of virginity. . . . The Chiss, though, don't have such a rite of passage that mystically transforms a boy into a man. They have what they call _to K'ir bah ch'a Vuhn_; the Making of a Man—the long journey of a boy to a warrior.

—From _The Making of a Man_

by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

* * *

** __Deep Space, Unknown Regions, 11 BBY__**

Ashton Reumar knew what it was to hate.

He knew the gnawing, desperate hunger that came with watching someone steal everything you deserved. A hunger for retribution.

He planned it well. He may not have had the grades to match some of his peers in the Academy, but no one could have accused Ashton of having a second-rate mind. Especially not when it came to hating.

Waiting in the deepest bowels of the _Ark Royal_'s engineering sections, he patiently checked his chrono. Before his time in the Imperial Academy, he doubted he would have had the patience to restrain the hatred into something usable. Now, though, it was a focused, deadly instrument.

Slow footsteps sounded down the long corridor, as a man with long strides leisurely walked toward where Ashton laid in wait. He fingered the holstered regulation-issue sidearm, knowing he should just shoot the man from where he was hidden . . . but also knowing that it wouldn't be enough to kill this man silently. Revenge wasn't that simple.

When the footsteps were only feet from where he was waiting in the shadows, Ashton stepped out into the middle of the corridor, drawing his sidearm as he did so.

A tall man came to a stop just a handful of feet from Ashton. His detached, sapphire-colored eyes didn't even flicker to the sidearm leveled at his midsection. "Lieutenant Reumar," he said coolly to the man who wore lieutenant commander's pips.

"Billy."

The man's expression didn't even flicker, and his eyes stared right at Ashton without any trace of fear. There were small, little scars on the left side of his face, where a burn hadn't quite healed right; drawing the flesh a little too tight.

Ashton didn't know who had given him that scar, but he wished he could have been there to see it happen—to hear him scream in agony. His gaze trailed inadvertently to where the tall man's collar was buttoned. Just the tip of a scar was visible, but it made Ashton smile ever so slightly in cruel remembrance—he'd been there to see that one; he'd helped deliver it.

The tall man's side was bare, with neither a sidearm or holster strapped there. He only ever seemed to wear the Navy-issued SE-14r pistol when he went off the ship. The only thing he carried in his long-fingered hands was a touchpad, which went right on displaying a tactical simulation, unaware of the situation its owner had found himself in.

"Coming to kark that pretty piece of winba?" Ashton asked crudely.

The man blinked very slowly. Still no fear on his face. Ashton couldn't remember the last time he'd seen anything other than cold detachment on his features. Maybe it had been when Liora had used him so cruelly for the last time, though he couldn't remember. "If you are referring to Ensign Foain, the answer is no," the tall man said, his distinctive Potsdamani accent sounding as familiar to Ashton as a lullaby from the cradle.

Ashton snorted mockingly. Some of the more naïve members of the Navy's officer corps still believed that it was their duty to take young officers under their wings, but the more realistic bunch—those like a certain Lieutenant Ashton Reumar—knew it was only ever done for benefit of the senior officer. Sometimes it was just the prestige that came with having fostered new officers into the Service, and sometimes it was for more . . . _physical_ benefits. Especially if the junior officer was of the opposite sex.

Ashton might have thought many things about the man standing in front of his blaster, but he was certain the man had a sex drive. He was also certain that Ensign Foain was _very_ feminine. That had been enough to know he was taking advantage of her every chance he got. After all, even a cold bashard like him must have enjoyed sex.

"Shame you'd cheat on Liora's memory that way," Ashton said, smirking. "Do you think of her every time you do it with that memapa? Every time she's on her back, do you think about Liora?"

The skin around William Sheplin's eyes tightened, but he didn't move. For just a split second there was anger on the tall officer's face; a cold, searing thing that was kept from exploding into a roaring inferno by force of will. What had caused it—either the insult to Ensign Foain's honor, or the memory of Liora—was impossible to tell. It was gone an instant later, his features controlled once again, leaving Ashton to half-wonder if it had truly been there at all.

When he spoke, Sheplin's voice was perfectly metered contempt. "If you're going to kill me, I would suggest you do it before boredom does the job for you."

For a moment, hatred spiked through Ashton. Sheplin thought he was a cool customer; willing to mock him even though Ashton held the power of life and death in his hands. But Sheplin didn't even understand that Ashton held it, he realized.

But while Sheplin didn't know, Ashton did. The understanding of the power he controlled made his stomach feel queasy—there was nothing like it; not even sex. It was more than just the power to kill; it was the power to destroy. He couldn't squander this power he had over Sheplin, like he'd done when they had been younger.

"Oh I'm going to kill you," Ashton promised, grinning as he reveled in the power. "But if you beg, I might just let Ensign Foain go on wondering why her kark-buddy is late."

The anger was less noticeable this time on Sheplin's face, as if he'd found a stronger grip on it, and was refusing to let go of it, for fear of losing control. "If I don't?"

"Well, now I don't blame you for taking a piece of Foain for yourself. I think just about every lieutenant aboard's been eyeing her—and don't get me started on all of those karking veses ratings!" He chuckled again. "In fact, I've been thinking about making my way to her quarters one of these nights—she might be good for a few good ones."

"The Captain would blow you out an airlock—you wouldn't even make it to a court-martial." Sheplin delivered the words without any malice or threat; just as a simple, utterly cold, statement of fact.

"That alien freak?" Ashton laughed outright, genuinely amused. "You all worship the ground he walks on, but I don't—he's just a pet the Admiralty keeps around." He smiled again, though the hatred was welling in him, larger and larger. "Beg."

"Go to Hell."

Ashton mimicked a girly moan. " 'Oh, give it to me, Commander. Harder!' " He laughed again. "Of course, she probably isn't that into it, but a man can't have everything, now can he?" His smile and the sick gleam in his eyes was repulsive.

He hadn't even been thinking about karking Foain before he mocked Sheplin, but the thought wasn't at all a bad one. After all, she was young and without any connections in the Navy; no one would believe her story. He laughed, knowing that no matter what Sheplin did—even if he did beg—he was still going to take her that night.

"Beg," Ashton said again, once he'd stopped laughing, already knowing that Sheplin wouldn't.

A bolt of ruby plasma lit the darkened corridors just as Sheplin opened his mouth to tell Ashton to go to Hell again, and the tall man cried out. But even as his cry echoed down the lonely corridors, Sheplin's hand lashed out, knocking the pistol from Ashton's grip with one savage blow.

Ashton lurched back in surprise, his fingers throbbing, before he fell to the deck plating as Sheplin's touchpad slammed into his head, the delicate electronics shattering with a plastic _crunch_. Something broke in his jaw, and his mouth hung open in pain like he'd never felt, blood flying from his mouth.

Sheplin couldn't see anything for a moment, as blood suddenly splattered across his face and white-hot anger clouded his vision, but he managed to connect with Ashton's head again. And again . . . and again. . . .

Then there was only his beating heart and gasps for breath.

Sheplin looked down at the crumpled body he was kneeling beside, and registered the broken face and the pulped flesh. Ashton's ruined face was scrunched up into pain, but there was a look of surprise on his face, as if he hadn't expected that death had been meant for him. With a trembling hand, he pressed two bloody fingers underneath of Ashton's collar, checking his pulse.

He was very dead.

Sheplin threw up a moment later, heaving onto the deck as waves of nausea rolled over him. His chest felt like it had been touched with a branding iron from where the bolt had burned through his uniform, though the lighter bolt hadn't been as high-energy as one from a rifle, and all of his limbs felt heavy and ungainly.

Death, he decided, his mind filled with shock, revulsion, and pain, was an awful thing.

* * *

The Stormtrooper guard outside of the Captain's quarters didn't say anything about Sheplin's hastily-scrubbed face or the burn mark on his uniform. There were still smears of blood on the fabric that had refused to come out, and his eyes looked slightly detached from reality, like he was walking through a dream.

Both white-plasteel armored soldiers saluted as he approached, and one of them rapped on the hatch for the tactical officer of the _Victory_-class star destroyer. Neither of them spoke except to say, "Good evening, sir."

When the hatch opened, an alien with glowing crimson eyes stood watching him for a moment. His face was like hard durasteel, and his fierce eyes stared out from beneath thick eyebrows. The shape of his face was only subtly alien, with higher cheekbones and an utter lack of any facial hair. He took in Sheplin, both his appearance and his body language, in a moment.

"Commander," Captain Thrawn said, stepping back and holding the hatch open. "Please, do come in."

Thrawn produced a bottle of Corellain whiskey and a pair of glasses, gesturing toward a pair of chairs, where both of them sat. Sheplin rarely ever drank, but he took the glass filled with a finger of whiskey with the attitude of a man who'd just discovered the font of living water.

Art and artifacts hung from every bulkhead, and holo-emitters that had been designed to display tactical situations instead showed an elaborate, multi-wall mural from Chandrila's Dark Times. All of which was ignored by Sheplin as he closed his eyes after gulping the whiskey down in a single swallow. For a moment, as the liquor burned toward his stomach, pain could be seen on his face.

Thrawn raised his eyebrows, setting his glass aside, barely touched. He glanced at the plasma burn on the uniform. "Take your shirt off, Commander."

Sheplin looked at him for a moment, a strange look in his distant, detached eyes. He began undoing the buttons of his coat, his eyes turning away toward the bulkhead, where artwork adorned every flat surface.

Thrawn found a medpac beside an emergency damage control station, but saw it was only stocked with basic implements of medical torture, and kolto instead of the far more effective bacta. The lack of bacta was due mostly to crop failures on Thyferra, Thrawn knew, though a very small, irrational part of him seethed at a Navy that wasn't willing to provide its spacers the finest care it could.

Sheplin had set his coat beside him, on the arm of the chair, and was pulling off his undershirt. Scars lined his chest and body, some of them trailing down to his belt-line, while others snaked up to his throat. The fresh plasma burn was evidenced by a patch of angry red boils forming, as well as a patch of flaking, burnt skin, and Thrawn shook his head a little as he saw it. Some of the pain could be seen on Sheplin's face; a slight tightness around his eyes and an occasional half-hidden grimace whenever Thrawn's delicate hands touched the burn outright.

As Thrawn worked Sheplin closed his eyes, little tears of pain forming at the corners of his eyes. "I killed Lieutenant Reumar," he said, his eyes still closed.

Thrawn didn't speak for a minute, his hands still applying salve and kolto. Questions sprung to his mind, but he sifted through them, searching for the right one; the one that would reach the heart of what he needed to know. "Did you enjoy it?"

Sheplin's eyes opened in surprise—perhaps even disgust—at the question, but he didn't answer right away. He closed his eyes again. "Maker, I don't know." The words were soft, with an edge of pain, either from the burn, or from what he'd done, and Thrawn heard the faint beginnings of Sheplin's voice breaking.

When the Potsdamani officer opened his eyes again, though, the tears of pain were gone and his voice was strong again. Slowly, he told his captain what had happened, the words rolling from his lips one after another. Thrawn never interrupted, but listened to every word intently as he worked.

Eventually, there were no words left, and Sheplin sat in silence, having pulled his undershirt back on, waiting for Thrawn to speak. The Chiss held his tongue for a minute, before asking, "You left the body in an engineering hold?"

Sheplin nodded once, picking up his coat and slipping it back on, buttoning it slowly.

"Good," Thrawn said simply. He looked at Sheplin, catching the man's gaze with his own. "It is not a light thing—to kill—William," he said, using Sheplin's given name easily, though the tall man couldn't remember the last time Thrawn had used it. "Though I suppose you'll know that, when your dreams come, tonight."

His gaze dropped to Sheplin's side, where no weapon hung. "Why weren't you armed?" he asked, no reprimand in his tone, just a question.

Sheplin hesitated as he considered. "I don't know. I didn't think—" He shrugged.

"Didn't think that you would need a weapon among your comrades?" Thrawn finished.

"Yes."

"Our comrades are often more dangerous than the enemy." Thrawn picked up his glass and took a swallow, before getting up and making his way to a bulkhead. Beside where a tattered battle flag of the 212th Attack Battalion of the Grand Army of the Republic was pinned to the bulkhead, a pistol and holster hung on pegs.

Thrawn pulled it and the holster from the wall, walking back to where Sheplin still sat. "The SE-14 is a piece of junk, designed by the lowest bidder," he said. "If you're to go armed, you'll be armed with a warrior's weapon."

Sheplin took the holstered weapon in his left hand, pulling the pistol out with his other. It was heavier than he expected, but it wasn't like the clunky SE-14r the Navy issued officers; it was compact and sleek, with nothing but iron sights marring its elegance. He could remember seeing it in propaganda holovids during the Clone Wars.

"It's a DC-17," Thrawn said. "And it's yours."

Sheplin couldn't think of anything he could say, and instead carefully holstered the weapon. He stared at the exposed butt of the pistol for a moment, wondering in between throbs of pain, if it would have made any difference earlier tonight. Would Ashton have not attacked, if he'd been armed? Would he have simply fired out of the shadows instead of trying to play with him like the fool had?

He'd never know.

Thrawn watched in grim approval while Sheplin buckled the non-regulation gunbelt around his waist.

* * *

They disposed of Ashton's corpse through a portside airlock. The Chiss captain held the feet while Sheplin carried the body by the arms. There were no witnesses.

**THE END OF THE INTERLUDE**

* * *

**A.N.**

Hi, ya'll! It's been quite a long while since I posted, and I apologize. Life's crazy. I intend to publish a chapter from Part Three every week until it's done, to make up for my lack of updating. Hope you all enjoy!


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